Immortalised Moi

Three miles away, there shall be a bear, be it Black, Grizzly or Pooh – breed matters not, and it shall be fleeing; fleeing from the fact of me a’stoney – three miles away in the new capital, busied by floral tributes and perhaps some well-put-together and recently deconstructed oxen.

In terms of animal sacrifice, I feel it’d be rude not to accept.

It seems natural to expect statues of myself to appear; pimpling the globe, here – in honour of my recently being deemed worthy to have a statue, there – being used to keep the pigs in the forest.

I muse fondly the idea of having sat-upon-feet, by lovers sharing an ice-cream whilst also having no idea who I am because they’re young.

It is but a shame statues aren’t a rebellious art form, being an erection of the establishment only.

It’d work though, with a sudden subversive statue on your front door – cope with that won’t you please Mr Reagan?

Me, as stone, shall gather no moss and isis (because they deserve lower-case) will keep away from this piece of articulated rock.

They’ll take note of my presence and consider as follows:

  1. Naturally; urinate. Urinate all over their own western candy.
  2. Turn the gun to themselves, look down the barrel, give it a brief suck as some vague hope of demonstrating greater subservient allegiance before; finally…
  3. Emitting an “Oh I see” in that democracy is the way forward, being gay is irrelevant whilst gay people aren’t and woman are terrific – let them try a book.

How did they realise democracy is the way forward?

They read it my democratic countenance.

I look democratic.

And, thus, you shall also be democratic; because I said so.

It’ll go with your new rebellious statues on the city centre.

Since you’ve asked, and I’m glad you did, as to how I would most like to be appreciated in stone once departed, there are several things upon to ruminate upon within the hallowed-hollow.

Such as: what cloth shall I wear?

I shall be nude.

Everyone’s laboured hard today and we all deserve a treat.

However, I’ll need something to flow – the best statues have a flow to them.

Got it – the luscious hide of a monstrous beast I bested, tamed, struck up a striking brotherly familiarity with and finally put out of its withered misery with game of fetch so intense one might describe as being “to-the-hilt!”.

Plus an actual stab to the hilt, owing to it being a monstrous beast and needing metaphors to be hammered home somewhat.

And you can bet your bottom…arse…that I won’t be urinating.

But why not Sam, you magnificent chap you?

Because it’s remarkably amusing to see the number of honoured deities flooding the market square with well-plumbed flows. And whilst this may be so; I’ve a better idea for everyone.

For, yea, I shall shit you your daily bread and prosecute all trespasses.

Actually; I’m all in favour of permitting a hint of trespassing (yes – I went there), but the humour is more humorous if we remain in good humour and don’t get a little too technical.

Intelligently mechanised automated bakeries, installed within the magnificent depths (my depths are magnificent) of my statues, having collaborated with my personal physicians, will feed the poor and aid the working single mother on her way home without time to pop to the shops.

Every hour and 30 minutes, another loaf emerges from between my heavenly yet Earthly buttocks and plummets into the waiting arms of the grateful below.

An added advantage of this is the appreciation shown by the gulls and pigeons for the morsels of bready-leavings in that they shit on other statues in other parts of the city/woods.

And that show of gratitude matters to me most of all.

Not to mention, should you shit on me; I’m the kind of statue to shit right back at you.

Even it’s a nice, considerate shit in the shape of a romance-heart. Thoust should have shat elsewhere, birdy.

I’ll punch a poo into you purely because it’s lyrical.

You feathery motherfucker; you want to get shitty at height with this immovable object?

I’ll be immovable all over; takes your eggs and have an omelette out of your lineage.

Plus beaks are dim. Your main method of eating requires you to headbutt the floor until you’re certain you’ve met with a good angle to grasp, toss thee petty crumb of crust high into the air and swallow whole (and, yes, whilst this may be my own preference of eating grapes, I’m still insulting you over it. Only idiots eat like us).

A statue, grubby or not, tends to look as though a bath is very much so in order.

Craving, with rain teared stoney eyes, a soak in the tub.

Where’d I’d become warm and gooey as though the centre of the Earth only 6 times as delicious.

I bet the centre of the Earth is a tasty place to be.

Working your way there after the rough crust of Vietnam, with the necessary healthy greens of northern South America, avoiding Saudi Arabia because no one wants that bit – the coffee bean in the Minstrel packet.

And the Earth is good, sturdy, take no mercy filling, complete with pleasant surprises that tingle the tongue, like a subterranean nuclear-proof palace of Kim Jong-un, and the occasional mole.

Working through that filling like you’re lusty. Lusty and proud with a tongue they’ll write songs of.

I lap at that planet, watchful of those wettards which may be a little too soggy. The Atlantic is guilty of this. Meanwhile the Sahara requires a beverage post-lapping. And London is just right, if a tad gritty.

Though I’ll bet Florida is like the juice you cannot but glug away at, refreshment to the hilt.

“To the hilt” – a phrase to remind us of a time when the utmost by which a thing could be done was as long as the blade you plunged into someone.

Let’s keep this phrasing up, shall we?

Take myself, for example. I am writing this article to the point of stabbing a fellow to full extent. I couldn’t possibly stab him any further – I’d quite exhausted my reach of stab; that’s how hard dedicated I am to this article.

Because murder is convincing.

Not as convincing as a statue; of course.

And none more so than a statue of me as myself.

Because I’m the greatest human to ever live.

And so are you.

Keep in touch with your stone masons.

Tip them regularly.

Sam

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