George Manka


A Philosopher's Dogger

“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world”

His tubed-steel attitude has manufactured the Chocolate Dilemma.
The empowered pincer of catastrophes; the beetle

conundrums; the jet-exfoliations whistling past pedestrian

analogies: a trampled box of crayons; a red and yellow
memory at the dog-bath: “The Alsatian Resistance.” Head first

into the washing hoist. Or it’s a doughnut choice that hampers

the dynamics of a theory splash-down. Crude oil spreads
investments into Kazakhstan and Nigeria. Diamond speculators

raise rates in Antwerp. Ceilings get lower by the decade, and a large

family beams in the picture before being transported. Was it
an overcast Sunday? We saw you on the platform, separating

linseed oil from pigment. That’s Elspeth with little Samuel. And Uncle

Abraham. He is holding the Amsterdam Edition of Spinoza. The muslin
tank-top absorbs the past on the Step-master. A mental event

toggles these tentative intentions into a brochure of horizons; a Monte Carlo

simulation that fissures into a putative delta of bile jokes and slap
happy twelve-bar progressions. The whisky flows and the lime

scale tips us off to the nature of the terrain: a bower prison

where a population of Argentine ants settles in for the fiesta
season. A small village in the Jura, and a young man scrums down

to repairing timepieces. It’s winter, and outside in the trees, the shrikes

pet and tickle a strip of cured lard. When evening associates itself
slowly with a line from Hardy, the crows amble up in twos and threes

through Brueghel’s gaseous states: a mile higher, and a tight craze

forms over our eyes. It snaps with a sonic boom, and plaques drop away
into Operation Overlord. Losses are never recuperated as pure form

rakes a Platonic profit. A candle graph commensurate with

a sore-throated falsification illuminates the marginalia:
“A calamitous nail-paring in a log cabin”? Or was it the weekend

subsidized by the Chemical Account? An impeachable executive

attracts that thunderous streaming over the channel. A heady belief
coaches us into these synthetic truths: innate gurglings that eruct

the superstructure and justify our having offspring: a gnocchi

pointillism that describes texture; or a wallpaper dichotomy that scrolls in
eternal returns of dentillated sutras and thin wooden dolls. Childhood is

oozing from the drainage tube into the bottomless Id. The raggedy

sutured smile begins to girdle its jokes. A well-licked rib
clangs in the kidney bowl. The mustard cheeks and the ketchup

trenches: the hospital notebooks. The laughter by the piano. It’s

saying the same thing, to wit nothing.
An old Austrian
flamingo. Spray painted. He sings it with his fingers stuck in his nose. Bugled

easy over. The relief map of baked beans. The proposition shows

logical forms in napkins on the floor. Where have you been? Looking for
an honest man? A quiet smoke over the tripwire?

knife-sets; gauze mug-warmers; ambitions for property development, anything

but a church-hall of crooners. The mushroom festival powers down. Buffs
dawdle at the threshold. They are wheedling samples for history. Mud

flaps and baked cylinders: a forensic feast for the aftermarket. A tragedy

found in an old shoebox reconstructs a phosphorescent Mary. She cockles
an inflated universe into a rinse-smear on a cheese-slicer. Speaking of

before does not make sense. There was no before.
Her outstretched stumps

(where Jesus had been) invoke the Louvre; the guide’s tin crowns;
the Peristaltic School’s oracle of Indian classics: cocoa beans and afternoons

at Les Deux Magots; there’s grazing Swami Robert’s One Minute Brinjal Fries: all

the a priories that instrumentalize the marbled dialectics of undressing in three-
quarter-time. A glib nothingness trails at the end of the conversation, followed by

the turning of the tables. You on top. Double-parked. From behind. Ying-Yang. Lolly

Pop. Smack. Priest. Scissors.
He fabulates this aerobic Tantra from first principles.
He has crushed charcoal to smudges of Naples; scraped clean a Klein-blue Vesuvius.

Concrete fossilises into moist limbs beneath his pumice spit. Triremes dock

at Central Stations before returning to their museums. Their outcome is fixed
while a shower curtain wobbles at the lip of mildew. A cuticle trail

leads to the kitchen. There’s something on the cooker. It’s a skunk-works

of dogma. Its levels coax us to the Plasticine. A name sticks.
It sags beneath a whiff of citronella. It grows rich on compound interest

and drags its gouty foot back to the medicine cabinet. It remembers

bobbing for marshmallows in a lava tube. A cut-back re-entry manoeuvre. But old
age has caught up and it wipes-out at the mirror. The brittle lips ripple

out in the shallows. A chocolate fondue amasses under the chin. A guru

breaches the firewall. Polder creams overflow into rusted tins. Mucilage
and metastases. Tea-cosies snuggle up to empiricism at five o’clock. The tail

gunner swings around and pinches out a few inches of his belt. Dune churches,

photogravures of the small-craft armada, lubberly restaurant touts, a truncated
pineapple diet: he’s painted the dust and wedged a jowly god into a quark.

“When the worm stirs the ligament, the arterial tide apes the panache”.

Is that fair? It happened at the punch bowl. Judith upended the entire limpet
onto Vicky’s dress. Mild precipitate tease; oleander-inspired flanges; sequenced

endpoint calculations of analyte; bleach-deltas silting the tie-dyes: stall

after stall, right into the car park. We fought with the kids. They were thirsty
and tired. We had finished the powdered-wig. The cumin and sherbet blush

gave a sheen of health to an otherwise blanched quandary: how many sizes

before the tympanum?
That’s five bars of irradiated rosette. At least a dozen
glass fragments before the lead is positioned. And the chorus pickles

a shock titrate with an inverted motif. The theme: Improved Parenting Skills.

He places his wicker chair next to the trouser press. The story styles itself
gigantic. He sits at moose-grazed purposes. A plethora sticks to his thumb. Mexico

trowels his beaches with driftwood. He anticipates an evening with the exact

capacity. The strings are his life. Desert flowers provide the initial conditions
for a new honey: “A Lover and a Friend”. He makes the market. He jockeys

                                                             for position.