The Quintessential Guide to Needless Breathing

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More Breath

Thesis: Breath and the Lack of Breath and Other Things in the Expression of Age Related Existentialism, in the Context of All Life As We Know It per se.

We breath, therefore we are, or were, sometimes as may be the case. My father once helped us with our English homework, his assistance with poetry got us into detention.

Mr. Honeywell, is remembered with reverence. It seems all of the kids at that school were not fitted for anything, all having fingers too short to play the piano, shoulders too narrow for swimming and legs too slow to run away. Breathing starts early in life, so very many people do it, and some others don’t want them to.

Uncrushed by Mr. Honeywell, I intend to illustrate 'per se' with a story about a woman caught on the back foot. Nothing ever does that better than when someone else knows more than you, here it’s her Solicitor. She just got a bill that took her breath away. When I say story, I mean poem and when I say Solicitor, I mean Darling, Butts and Balls, English names, though I don't infer any cultural theme. The people in this chapter and the others are not intended to resemble any Solicitor or practice in any way, shape or form dead or alive, I apologise if it does.

Messrs. Darling, Butts & Balls.

It was a simple matter, worth

less than 50 smacker, but they had drawn it out,

in legal chitter chatter.

Someone wants the fat, and she had

smelt a rat,

it was astronomical once they had added vat.

So lets cut the gloss, someone hiked the cost, for ten

minutes work done

on microsoft.

“You cannot be serious”, the air went bitter chill,

“I think

you are delirious,

I think that’s overkill”.

“I’ll fight you on the beaches

and I’ll bite you on the features,

I’ll get the legal ombudsman you

blood sucking creatures”.

“Can we stop just there”, he replied with some despair,

“those zeros are a typo,

they should have been elsewhere”.

She didn’t say a word,

not an atom stirred

wished the ground would open up

and she would be interred.

The moral of the story,

it is very clear,

before your mouth is opened

get your brain in gear.

Fighting on the beaches Darling, is for crazy fools,

Don’t be left licking Butt

or holding loads of Balls.

The unpersevering of the world would be unready for this comatose snapshot of someone languishing on the job. A common saying of, by name, by nature, is taken to a nocturnal conclusion. The story of someone barely breathing.

Ms. Dolittle

Dolittle by name, do little by nature

dilly and dally, dally and dilly

do lots of nothing and willy nilly.

I really do feel the stress

of doing so much


But I’m not lazy, not a bit

nor duller than the

next dipshit. Yes, I’m

shallow, empty, just a shell,

but I do it rather well.

And so to sleep perchance

to dream,

that I’m smothered in whipped cream.

things held open with a peg,

so I don’t have to lift a leg

Sleeping on undiminished,

pull down my nightie when

you’ve finished.

Fascinating. We’re not all pebbles laying close by on the same beach, but take one common denominator like breathing and we’re more similar than you think. A synergistic tale of the development of one mans life, his loves, and how rhetoric and artistry lead to an eloquent end. It’s very depressing.

The Evolution of Breath

He’d breathed all his life except in between, that bit where you pause, you know what I mean. You breathe in the air and once it’s enjoyed, eject and exhale it back to the void. Then you hang there, that moment when lungs just abstain, there you go, deep breath in, now do it again. It’s an art form evolved from nothing I’m told, we’re just bits of algae, from a soup of old mould, Whence emerges the wonders of life’s building blocks, it starts to breathe, multiplies, then slithers off rocks.

Once breathing we started raising our chests, scratching our arses and putting on vests. By the highest processes we became man, launched off to planets, and got a white van. Figure it out, how to succeed, you’ve an arse that needs scratching, a family to feed. And that is it, when cut to the bone, from blob to breath, job, it all sets the tone.

In life there’s work, profit and pleasure, our man who’s still breathes does it at leisure, in between all the working and twerking, he acts, he’s a player, in amdram as a matter of fact. A friend of a friend and her friends, friendly mummy asked him one night to stand in for their dummy. He caught the bug, succumbed to the thrill of seeing his name at bottom of bill.

The best bit of acting, his deathly repose, when play had reached climax he’d curl up his toes, he dropped like a stone in the old village hall, and never got up ’til the curtain call. Night after night the audience clapped convincingly pleased by the death of this chap.

On the very last night at the close of the play, he takes his last breath and drops his toupee while fighting a humongously huge heart attack, our fellow falls dead, bang in his tracks. The last sight he saw this treader of boards, this entertainer and strangler of chords, was the old grim reaper who just for a laugh, dropped by on whim for our friends autograph.

He was an actor, a darling, an old theater ham, and a bloody good double for a double dead man. Evolution, its harmless, best think again, blob, breathe, job, and entertainer of men, gasp, drop curtains, epitaph and amen. Funerary speeches, last rites and last sod, eyes all look skyward, best wishes to God, open bottles fill glasses, and how the time passes.........

We miss him alas..... cry tearily, wearily, steam up our eye glasses...he had lived, now he’s gone and he’s nothing but gases.

Bibliography: Bats In The et al.

No revolution wanted, this story is a comment I wasn’t asked for on how we breathe difference and breed indifference.

The Sassinak

All posh wankers listen up, have you never heard of sassinak, but lived with them day by day, in places where the poor don’t stay. It’s just a wee poke, a laugh, a joke, England’s run by these folk. They slither from hereditary cracks, Lords and Ladies on their backs, they love pheasant, Jocks and Taffs, well shoot one for food, two in the back.

Bibliography: Accredited to Hugh Janus.

Motherhood, there’s always an expert on hand with the ‘wisdom’ of ages. Then why do our children have no teeth, where is it all leading and what’s a mother to do. Here’s a few traps of parenthood.

Tantrum Rock

Don’t do that the mother cries as she blots her toddlers eyes, shaking in a hissy fit, he’s not breathing not a bit. Red he quivers then turns blue, our mothers nerves start to unglue.

Stop that she scalds, it’s not funny give me back your pocket money. The child enraged and shaking bad gives his mother all he has, square mouth, tonsils, snot and bubbles, tenses up his tummy muscles. Spews projectile on demand, the mother load at his command.

An onlooker tuts through pur-sed lips, has sweeties at her fingertips. Is he allowed it’s my top tip, though I’m not proud not a bit. A bribe, a carrot, a bargain chip it’s either that or the whip. Happy toddler chews something jammy, smiles at her, “I love you mammy”.

Sugar is sweet my love, honey is too, but your gummy grin our kid, what should a mam do. When you are three my babe, or maybe it’s four, I’ll see no tantrums, no rolling on floors. But what of your smile my love, those stumpy black pegs, when you can’t chew no more, I’ll take you to Greggs.

Cos they have the salt my dear, the fat, and they brag, all of the good goodness that soaks in the bag. And when you’ve grown up my chick, on all the best slag, mammy will help you get your first fag.

When summer dies and we feel the first cold breath of the winter, we put on our boots and gloves, and kick through the fallen leaves. Like a ritual, the walk says hello to the winter, then our soul waits for the snow.

Breath of Seasons

Monday arrives without grace, shaved my legs, painted my face. Walked around the park display, breathed in winter silver gray.

The church clock chimes out half past three, sit under a red leafed tree. Spiders working in their webs, twist the hunted in their threads.

Winter breathing down my back, puffs of smoke on chimney stacks.

Fingers stiff in one size gloves, winter comes like forgotten love, A pigeon pips on me from above.

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