On the Wagon

seven days dry now
that’s good right?
no that’s horrible awful
what’s that on the wagon or off?
what they say
i don’t know on or off
i once fell off the wagon in my father’s village some peasant with dentures picked me up from the cooperative i was bringing half a kilogram of flour to my grandmother and this bloody peasant with dentures picked me up and played a joke on me halfway he turned and looked at me and removed his false teeth i thought it was the devil and fell off the wagon on my ass in the mud in the middle of the road
the devil
tricky
the best thing the devil ever did was convince us he existed
so now you’re on seven days
with nothing not even a fragment not even a word dry dry dry
it’ll come you’re just blocked
no i think i’ve reached the end there’s no more to say
that’s good as well i wish more people realized that and stopped altogether
you know Papa tried walking into the propeller on the tarmac when they were bringing him back from Mayo in Rochester
did he now
he had run out of words as well
it’s an awful way to go sliced like that
chiffonade
it’s good only on herbs not flesh
i have sharp knives long nights and no more words
it’s a good start

A Family In Decline (An Absurd Play In No Acts)

(Fade in: a well-lit ante-room looking into larger, Victorian chambers. A woman walks in and pours a drink from a crystal decanter. She swallows. And then she fans herself with her open palm. A drop of sherry rests on the corner of her lips, then starts down her chin. She catches it. And then she touches herself in between her legs with two fingers. Fade out.)

(Fade in: large, Victorian chambers. A young man is having a bath in the middle of the room. On the floor there is a tall bottle. Around the bath there are chairs and various divans inhabited by men and women watching, playing with pocket watches, drinking port out of crystal glasses. They’re bored. And making hushed small talk. Someone is playing an out of tune harpsichord off stage.)

—Oh for…for Chrissakes…
—What?
—Oh…oh stop it, will you?
—What? Stop what?
—Oh God, you are so…maculate. With your drinking.
—What?
—And straight out of the bottle…
—What? What the fuck is that mean? Maculate.
—Brute! I won’t have any of it. You are a vulgar, vile man.
—Fuck you.
—Oh.
—Sorry I forgot. I already have.
—God forgive me.
(laughter from the men and women in the room)
—God doesn’t forgive incest, don’t you know? Repent!
—Stop it!
—It really is quite all right to be kissing cousins.
—Stop it. I’m warning you.
—Fucking cousins.
—Stop. Murray. You’re awful.
—Royalty did it. They bred themselves into history. We’re royalty. Can you see it? Can you see it in your fucking, narrow head?
—Oh God.
—Fuck God.
—Oh, you’re so vile…heretic!
(laughter from the men and women in the room)
—In other respects, my darling, dear repressed morsel, it has been a fine day. Thank you for asking. Mimi is getting straight As, Balthazar has lost his first tooth, and the victrola has been repaired. I received a communiqué from the States.
—Oh, you are such a genius.
—Your breasts are like red cabbage.
—Vulgar!
—Vulva!
—Oh God…you…
(laughter from the men and women in the room)
(to room)
—Shut the fuck up!
(and then to audience)
—…fucking royalty. They all ought to be shot like the Romanovs. Into the basement and shot.
—Stop it. Murray.
—Shut it, you fucking pretentious cunt. You fucking make-believe princess. You make me sick.
(to the rest)
—All of you do.
—Murray…
—What nationality are you?
—What?
—You heard me.
—English. I’m English. That is, I was born Czech, but my father was English.
(The man reaches for the empty bottle and chucks it at her hard. She avoids the nearly-deadly projectile.)
—Oh God…God help you…
—Fuck God. God is dead. He has died of pity for cunts like you and me.
—Oh for Chrissakes…
(The woman exits sobbing, distraught. The man in the bathtub shifts and reaches down for something. Only there is nothing. He reaches still, and searches for something, his hand moving urgently.)
—Franny?
(The lights begin to fade very slowly.)
—Franny?
(Still fading.)
—Francine! Come back here.
(Still fading, now almost out)
—Francine, you fucking cunt you! Come back here and set up the chairs!
(Lights out. Complete darkness. Only laughter. And an out-of-tune harpsichord).