Beatlebone Read Online Free

smoke—it tastes of the past and uncles, sip by the beaded sip. He doesn’t really drink anymore. No booze, no junk, no blow. These are the fucking rules. He is macrobiotic. He is brown-rice-and-vegetables. The stations of the fucking cross. A read—that would be an idea. The room has grown sombre as the night finds its depth. What’s the fucking word? Crepuscular. He flicks a lamp switch against it. The amber light of the lamp as it warms weakly on the old flock wallpaper brings the waft or flavour—you can’t miss it—of Edwardian time. Oh and here’s a word—Edwardiana. Very nice. The word gives dapperness, and tapered strides, and teddy boys. He looks around his tiny room beneath the eaves and laughs—the West of Ireland by night. Oh just taking the fucking air, really. I’ll have a stroll in a bit. Try not to fuck myself in the briney. Fathomless depths, et cetera. Oh Christ, a read—fill up this sour brain with words. He slides a drawer on the tiny dresser—the dresser is so tiny it might be for the fittings of elves—and there is no Gideon’s, not as such, but there is an old book there:
    The Anatomy of Melancholy
by Richard Burton
    Richard fucking Burton? What kind of establishment is this? Now the melodious syllables come to shape his lips—hammy, taffy, lispy, vaguely faggy? How did it go? In
Under Milk Wood
? He looks in the dull silver of the dresser’s mirror and mouths the words—
I know there are
    Towns lovelier than ours,
    And fairer hills and loftier far,
    And groves more full of flowers
    And boskier woods more blithe with spring…
    Boskier? Fuck me. He flicks through the pages. Okay. It’s a different Richard. And there are all sorts herein. He falls onto the bed. He unknits his long, cold limbs. He falls into the drugged pages. He reads for hours and every now and then
    Thou canst not think worse of me than I do of myself.
    he speaks aloud but
    Melancholy can be overcome only by melancholy.
    just the two words, repeated
    He that increaseth wisdom, increaseth sorrow.
    over and over again
    If you like not my writing, go read something else.
fuck me,
    fuck me,
    fuck me.
    ———
    At last he gives in to the night or at least makes an arrangement with it. He sleeps a long, unquiet sleep disturbed by quick dreams of woodland places. These come as no great surprise. He meets elves and sprites and clowning devils. Anxiety? He wakes at last to a new world and to a morning lost in a heavy mist. Sorely his bones ache—he traces the length of the soreness with a long, dull, luxurious sighing. Which is very pleasant, as it happens. Though also he feels about ninety fucking six. The grey buildings outside have softened in the mist and in places have all but disappeared. The hills across the river are entirely wiped out. He feels oddly at home, as though he’s woken to this place every day of his life: a sentimentalist. Maybe as the grocer or as the farmer or as the priest. Now his calm is broken by a set of angry steps come along the passage and a mad rapping on the door and the door is nearly off its bloody hinges—
    You’d better come in!
    It’s Hatchet-Face, his favourite crone, and she’s on the warpath—
    Great spouts of steam gush from her hairy ears.
    Her pinned eyes are livid and searching.
    Her mouth contorts to a twisted O.
    Who’s dead? he says.
    She runs a filthy look around the room.
    She sniffs the air as if he’s pissed the bed.
    Do you realise, she says, that it’s hapist ten in the morning?
    Hapist? he says. Already?
    There are people, she says, with half a day put down.
    Best thing you can do with days.
    She eyes him—an owl for a mouse—and sucks her teeth. There is dark auntly suspicion in the glance, as if he’s been having a sneaky one off the handle. A clamminess, as of families. He has been drawn back into something here. The clock runs backwards. He holds the covers boyishly against his chest.
    Had I better make a move, love?
    You’d better, she says. There’s