Barry half rhymes with taxidermy. He finds this humorous. In his basement is a carnival of miniature stuffed animals. This has no link to his father’s penchant for buggery, but his animals pose in spoon-state.
Everything in t-his world exists in the carcass of a freshly tire trodden, maggot maligned, stinking, steaming, adjectival inducing puddle that was a possum but is now a mess spewed up from the putrid bowels of our Heavenly Father. To Barry, our Heavenly Father is a short bearded man in shit stained undies with a rotund portion of subcutaneous adipose tissue - a fat man, a fickle master of a fickle world. And so Barry feels no shame for finding gratification in the vomit pile before him; if this guy can be worshipped and revered, he has nothing to worry about.
Taxidermy, derived from derma (Greek) – same root as Epidermis, the outer layer of skin. Barry dribbles mindlessly as he thinks. It’s all Greek to him. Suppose skin is what holds me together, he muses. He muses: how pretentious of him. Musing is the process of rubbing ones half-grown bearded whilst looking into the distance. (OED?)
Tour through Barry’s gallery of the macabre – 3 rats a’shagging, 2 robins performing a twisted 69, 1 rabbit doing a Prince. It’s shameful, but intriguing. Not the kind of place you’d need an audio guide, not the kind of place you’d take a girl on a date unless she had a piercing in her nipple, but a place to explore the idea of what it would be like if animals performed sick sketches as buskers. Barry pulls a tabby from a glass cabinet. He eyes it up, masturbates, falls asleep and dreams of finding a whole dead cow.
James Holding
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