Bore

By David Francis Jeffery

Are you a busy person? What a stupid question, of course you are. But, are you a busy person that still needs mental stimulation, i.e. reading? However, who has time to sit down and read a novel these days? Amirite? Don't you wish there was a book you could just dip into and out of, whenever you felt like it and not have to worry about continutity, characters or plot? Just something you could read? Well, BORE is the book for you. No more wondering, 'who is that?' No more thinking, 'I don't remember that guy.' BORE is structured as prose poems. It has no chapters, no characters and no real format to worry about. But, don't think this is just some throw away piece. BORE will make you think. BORE will give you nightmares. BORE will sharpen your instincts. In fact, once you start BORE, you just may find yourself lost in its pages for hours before you know it. BORE; the flip book that offers more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Francis Jeffery
• Release date: Jan 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301305704

David Francis Jeffery

David Francis Jeffery is a writer living in Australia with his wife and daughter. He has a had a few things published here and there and has self-published two chapbooks and a literary magazine in the early '00's. He writes everyday but not everyday does he write something worthwhile.

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BORE

By David Francis Jeffery

Copyright David Francis Jeffery 2013

Smashwords Edition

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Is it a past relief of the kind you thought it was only five years ago? I guess the countdown may well have been true after all, the way the sunlight hit the window to come streaming onto the rug, I would’ve thought anybody could be cut. But then not everybody could bleed as freely as you could, and I don’t mean aqua. You could never weep without the thought of a desperate man, willingly driving the car off a mountaintop, just to kill the sound of your voice. But, that’s poetry isn’t it? A slight exaggeration and the steam comes as a rival of only the shoreline in a film. A persistent keeper of the lower order of scene-stealers and naked hawkers, plying their trade without a shadow of conscience. And it was only five years ago that the well was abandoned for fear of the dry, cracked mud becoming septic.

Stranger than a forgotten past, the resemblance to her best friend was uncanny yet; they did not look alike. The crest of this new wave seems familiar and, I don’t know about you, but I could never see the point in illness. I mean, to get sick, yes, but ill? There’s no truth to the rumour that vicious control can be a mind-numbing thing so, I could never really get comfortable with the fact that Jesus was God’s son. As a crucifixion, I can see how he might have suffered but, as God’s son, I could never grasp the significance of why he died for so little and for such a waste as a human life.

The shadows are quietly lengthening and the vast, dry brutal north has once again buried me in a clutch of such depression that I continually feel like going outside and granting the first person I meet one wish, endeavouring to bring it to realisation. The TV is vomiting into the corner again and I feel that the next concern could break me or indeed, send me back to asthma, feeling so constricted that I need to keep a dog collar handy just to enable me to speak.

Apologies do no longer seem to be the accepted norm behind my visions of personal expression. Iron your shirt, you look like crap, but it’s not a finger on the pulse that’s the cliché, it’s just the way you say it. Pass me a tissue, I’ve never felt so sad and I realise that resistance is not an altogether immovable force. My lesbian friends tell me that red stains the colour of a relationship but I always thought it had more to do with menstruation than they would really let on. Not being homosexual, I may be speaking out of turn but, it’s better than talking about something I may actually be conversant in.

Sky-blue is a pathetic sort of a description but you try with the vocabulary I possess.

It’s the running water that sets you up for the rest of the day, I’m sure of it. That cold sound as your ears sift through the pleasant and the ugly, re-creates the amniotic fluid we bathed in as the foetus. Depending on the length of time of the conception, does the male or female win? Or, am I, perhaps placing too much emphasis on the sporting nature of fucking? I talk to people, they tell me things, I tell them things, you tell me a fuck isn’t a sport. They say you lose weight, your heart rate increases, you sweat, you fall asleep. You pay, you pay hard, you pay often.

If prayer is time with God, why would you want to waste your life by praying? The callousness of the activity would seem to warrant some change but I’ve yet to notice. If God is all around, why tell Him anything? You may get your drains unblocked but it won’t be God’s way of telling you you were right. Requirements of a new seed break open the sighs and begin a new persecution, not seen since the advent of commercial radio. Conformity is such a negative word these days but it can be less messy than standing in pool of bile and calling it a hit. But what’s wrong with that anyway? Conform, castrate, conform, castrate, the legend goes on into myth, the myth goes on into deity, the deity becomes religion. Simple, isn’t it?

Is it strong? The fridge is leaking out the fumes that are making my head swim. Concentration may leave me in a state of suspended animation but the jewel that falls from one word to my mouth can make