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The Fear - It's Got Me

Not a great day for Paul H. Look out, the fear is just around the corner.

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by Paul Hawkins, for outsideleft.com
originally published: November, 2007
a deadly mixture of murdered mad cow adrenaline and processed beef jerk-off
by Paul Hawkins, for outsideleft.com
originally published: November, 2007
a deadly mixture of murdered mad cow adrenaline and processed beef jerk-off

Hhmmm. As I squinted into the unaccustomed glare of the bright sun I was sure I had seen something flickering….there it was again.

Oh God. Oh God no, I dont care whose God, just no please…........................I intuitively knew what was to come. I was familiar with the territory. Here comes the FEAR.

Like a jet of nitrous gas had been injected into my spinal duct, an anti-freeze fluid winter top up from the devils ( is he/she all bad? ) own howling scrapyard apprentice mechanic.

I shook my head and closed my eyes. I had to regroup the throbbing brain signals clouding, circulating and immersing my nervous system. I desperately hoped I was mistaken. I always do. HOPE.

My internal dialogue was now sparking with effort, sending ice – aged, searing, burning electrical impulses I had not experienced for several years up and down, round and round, curling and curling throughout and all around my tensed and churning stomach.

Yes, I know fear. Anxiety was on very good terms with me, oh yes, it greeted me with open arms, did Anxiety, with gifts dripping and falling from its clutches.

And the sweet, sweet, green-green grass of home made, honey dipped, whispers of cold cold FEAR seeped slowly towards me, like the condemned mans pellet of noxious gas fumes and suddenly became of such piercing volume I felt I was about to pukechoke and purge my innards of the very daggers of funk-xiety. Its always hot on the outside, cold, oh so cold on the inside.

The implosion of the backward microwave effect had me. By the fucking short and curlies, in its fist of FEAR so tight I could hardly, hardly….................

And sweating, I imagined I'd crawled on up the road, the sound of the source of my fear distorting and toying with my ears and my mind, with its endless squawking cacophony, bejewelled with dark dark contradictions, sun-burnt swearing, bullshit otherness turned inward on itself into the most repugnant creature of all.

The worst was about to happen. I could now see it. Feel it. My bowels emptied themselves onto my stool, like those of a dog I had once seen, after it had been run over by a truck.

There was no mistaking it. Standing with arrogance way above itself, assuming the stature and confidence of those who ignorantly know no better.

Mr. Brett Bigot had arrived. He had left Casa Bigot in his four wheel drive and had driven ( of course ) the short distance here at breakneck speed. Pissed up from the earlier BBQ, high on a deadly mixture of murdered mad cow adrenaline and processed beef jerk-off, his truck spewed drunken Bigots onto and into the bar.

I had sensed and squinted till I froze, literally, trying to see the dust following the metallic green paint job speck that flashed into my fear diagnosis receptors, as I cuddled and made love to my small glass of coffee, before the Bigots crashed and had a head-on collision with my quiet, late afternoon's party, demanding Imperial Pints from the barman in slurred English.

Paul Hawkins

Paul Hawkins has been interested in popular culture and music, protest and survival for as long as we can remember. He began writing about things, making music and other noise at an early age. Paul has interviewed musicians, writers, poets, protestors and artists.

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