Multiple Hilda

My old multiple Hilda tended to her rusty robot chickens by dowsing them in leg irons and starting a riot which at 2.30am on a Sunday morning was fairly extreme as most people especially Betty turban always washed her robot chickens in thistles first rendering them like pissed and lethal to the extent of allowing all of the wealth of Bolivia to emanate from their torrid little cyber bellies which choked them to a giddy ole state of not knowing who had feathered them or who had just lamped them straight across the kisser putting them into a hole of soil and woeful discontent the likes of which has not been seen since Armand Von Kelp chose his bride by Otter wrestling ten king size Otters in the space of four days way back in the canyons of black sugarsville 1966


As the fragments of glass scattered  across the floor
Like tiny pieces of ice discomfort
A frail faced boy slowly appeared at the jagged hole in the window

There was a pause..

The T.V. blared out at full volume a repeat of Worzel Gummidge into the room
Seismic flatulence trumped out in F sharp minor
Then stirring from out of the cloud of yellow arse gas
Worzel Gummidge noise box blarings
And broken glass scatterings
Stood up a delicate figure of a woman
Dressed in a veil of nothingness
And holding something red and round in her pale petite hand

"Is this your cricket ball" She said softly

The frail faced boy looked nervously and said "Yes it is..sorry about your window..can I have my ball back please"

There was a lengthy pause...

The woman lit a cigarette and puffed seductively

Smiled gently

Then in a flash threw the ball square at the frail boys face
CRACK!!!
The impact knocked the boys eyes out of his head and into a small rose bush in the garden

There was a final pause

Cigarette smoke filled the room acrid and grey
The delicate woman
Dressed in a veil of nothingness
Slowly sat back down in her favourite chair
Scratched her bare arse briefly
Trumped loudly in E flat Major
And continued to watch the repeat of Worzel Gummidge
At an extreme ear splitting volume


This mix of cut-up and surreal prose goes back to early 1999.

It was created in much the same way as my other cut-up writings, but with a more subtle approach ready for the surrealist prose at the end.

By Spartacus Mole