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A Revelation: Early Holswick Material Discovered!

Inherent in the fabric of life, is a moment in time where moments of self-reflection dissipate from the realms of luxury to that of necessity. Where the cosmos we once inhabited is rendered inverted, distorted, changed...forever. The death of ones parent is never easy. Yet, with the rain comes growth and the setting of one glorious sun promises the rising of another. So too, death can give issue to hope. My mother recently passed. While it is true that, in a sense, within her was born all of my life's work, it was unbeknownst to the twain of us that in a more literal sense, she harbored my very first work. Upon medical inspection it was revealed, that bored into the walls of her womb were the etchings of my very first creation. A poem, captured forever by one jaded as I was. 

While I am in a sense embarrassed by the work of my fetal form, as it does not carry with it the biting wit or sense of structure which would become so characteristic of my latter works, what it lacks in sophistication it someway compensates for in a certain naive subjectivity that i feel is absent from the poets of today. For this reason only I present it to you... bear witness...

My Tomb. By, Ye Unfortunate Unnamed. 

In sepulchral womb i am enslaved,

but the walls of my tomb are pink, not grey. 

And in salty ocean I'm here to stay,

yet my spirit flies free, to play, to play.

And this cursed rope betwixt my keeper,

anchors me as my soul shrinks deeper,

I shall welcome the night, o noble reaper,

and with placenta as sheet, my sleep seeps deeper.

And a tear so salty cannot be tasted,

in this barren land in which they're wasted, 

and the hour hand I'm face to face with, 

in this wretched womb where time is paced with. 

Alone I lie, and I try to dream,

and feel death's touch, so comfortably,

and alone I cry, for my disease,

is life itself. Please spare me, please.

This tomb, this prison, this womb, this cage!

This room I'm hid in, so soon, must change,

And splutter me sticky to sick light of day,

Oh death please take me, to play, to play.

Mr. Butthole: Tale Of A Forgotten Legend

http://soundcloud.com/mr-butthole/mr-butthole-entrance-theme



Blast-from-the-past pro-wrestler Mr. Butthole may not be be a name at the tip of everyones tongue. 'Butt', during his brief stint in the WWF in the late 1980's s Mr. Butthole became an unlikely household name. With his innovative set of signature moves, such as the 'Butt Splash', 'Butt Slam', and the 'Shake, Rattle and Hole', Mr. Butthole became one of the fastest rising 'stars' ever to grace the WWF.
His wrestling career began in an appropriately unlikely fashion. During the mid 1980's, Mr. Butthole, or at the time; Chadwick Muhammad Goldsmith, was working at 'King Chicken', a small Chicken Joint which Goldsmith co-owned with Billy Nando, who would later go on to Chicken fame. During busy hours at King Chicken, Goldsmith would act as bouncer, often having to manhandle the rough-and-tough patrons of London's arty Soho district. One evening, or so the story is told in chicken-lore, Goldsmith was man-wrestling with one particularly boisterous Soho regular when, by a co-incidence which can only be described as a co-incidence, The Iron Sheik of WWF fame was searching Soho's backstreets for some 'backdoor meat'. Naturally he came to King Chicken, and upon seeing Goldsmith's physical ability with the unruly bone-licker, he is said to have uttered the words which have now gone down in history; "Do you still do the wings?". After receiving his protein-laden mouth-filler, The Iron Sheik briefly exchanged a few words with Goldstein which would change his life forever; "You know, if you like that, Wrestling's full of them." The wheels of change, upon the carriage of desire, ridden by the night-man of hope and pulled by the horses of dreams, were officially in motion.

Goldsmith moved out to LA the following year. Where he religiously followed the WWF around their touring circuit, often claiming that he couldn't wait to find a way into wrestling's back-door.The following fall Goldsmith's prayers were answered when he ran into the Iron Sheik at a wrestling event in Las Vegas. Recognizing the muscle-laden meat-vendor, The Sheik invited Goldsmith along to a wrestling try-out to be held the following day. Goldsmith's talent and finesse in the noble art were soon recognized by none other than Vince McMahon, owner of the WWF. With a creativity, formerly stifled by the mundane serving of piping-hot cock at King Chicken, Goldsmith was a fount of creativity and inspiration. His wrestling was a suggestion from the Iron Sheik, and with his new monicker Goldsmith would go on to invent a range of intricate, and original wrestling moves. The bright lights and large crowds brought out the star in Mr. Butthole.

Mr Butthole shot up the ranks of the WWF roster at a speed which had never before been observed, until that is, the introduction to the WWF of a young man named Michael Hickenbottom, AKA Shawn Michaels. Ironically it would be the ascension of Michaels to the top which would be the downfall of Mr. Butthole. Soon, 'The Heartbreak Kid' Shawn Michaels was grabbing the main events as well as the heart and minds of America. In a socio-cultural display of post-conflict national collective consciousness, America's citizenship accured Michael as a archetypal token of American values in a post-Nixon, Red Scare and Cold-War tectonic shift in values. And, as the fried Chicken-Breast of Show-business simmered in the fat of the American people's affection Mr. Butthole sank into a self-loathing state of meat-pizzas and cheese-burgers. Unable to perform any longer with a body-full of crust and gristle, Mr Butthole quickly sank into obscurity. Once dazzling the fans in main events with The Butt Splash and The Butt Slam, he had been reduced to opening matches with unheard of wrestler's, often losing as McMahon would use him as a springboard to 'put over' new talent in the company. One fateful night at the 'December DeathBall' on a rainy February, Mr Butthole failed to turn up to his opening match against soon-to-coffin-filler Jason 'The Train' Bradstein. Mr Butthole was never seen or heard from again.

Legend has it that on some quiet nights, Mr. butthole can be spotted pacing up and down the Soho street where King Chicken once stood, before being torn down to make way for the first Nando's restaurant. I suppose we shall never know. However, for this journalist, there will always be a page of a history book which will forever have Butthole smeared across it.


Alan Holswick, 2010

Alan Holswick Chroniclium: Autobiography, Part The First

Part 1

Preface:

I have long considered myself a protector. A writer-templar of the truth, with the pen as my sword, and page as steed. And, like those stoic knights of old, I have lived by my sword. Now, in the twilight of my foray into this dream, this illusionary ballet of shadows on the wall, this fiction that we may call life, I will die by my sword. However, as every good fiction requires beginning, middle and end, I raise my sword high for one final tale. O ye noble reader: bear witness to my beginning. Page one:

Chapter the first:

I was spluttered into this world. A feverish, Dionysian, bestial ecstasy, whose unfortunate rejection in the name of Apollo would only cease in moments of writing, and ultimately in death. O Apollo! O wretched soul who dost pluck man’s spirit from primordial unity! Why must ye conquer, spurned only by the pen and page! After all, between womb and tomb, there is only a letter.

I emerged from catacombs-all-slippy on the stroke of midnight. As the hands of time aligned, so did the cold gnarled hands of death. As the day slipped into night, so did my mother. I was parentless. By all accounts, no sound fell from my face-hole; I did not cry. I was too sad.

Chapter the second:

I was abandoned. All legs and skin, I lay alone. The Thames provided for me. The river my mother, and her banks my crib. From the age of two I sought employment. Physical labour is food for the mind. I feasted. Coal mines, stables, factories – O how I dined! Toil’s succulent juices, all moist in the tooth-box. Labour’s sweet wine in word-hole.  And, after I was full to sack-burst all on floor, I would sleep. With a Shakespearian manuscript as my roofing, in mud and sordid sludge I would await the dawn.  

Chapter the third:

My years of late adolescence. Ah! That tumultuous span whose tempest dost rage and wear the wales of youth.  Concerning myself, such rapid waves were at once metaphor and material. I began labour aboard a sea-vessel, the harsh exertion of which, in addition to the affections of my captain, both tender and despicable, quickly made a peculiarly aged man out of me, despite the fact that only twelve winters had chilled my bodily frame. When the necessity arose for me to attend a letter to an outpost in some far-off tropic, I was unawares of the crossroads on which I stood. Oh Mephistopheles! What sweet sacrilege! What cruel irony! What languid providence that in my boyish grip I would clutch my life’s Ursatz. I contracted malaria in that hellish jungle. Nigh on thirteen moons I thrashed from back-of-face to word-hole in feverish hallucination. Macabre spectres haunted my bedpost while the disease ravished my gaunt frame, and I lay in sleep-hole all vomit and insides, while ghoulish apparitions defiled my modesty, leaving me feeling at once empty and full-to-burst-body-blood. As I neared my final cadence, my hellish culmination, I craved for death, longed for expiration, even loved it, my Liebestod. In an act which would become the leitmotif of my life, I garnered the strength to reach across my nightstand. I picked up a quill. Faust! Why did ye welcome sweet damnation! Mephisto! How could you shackle such innocence! By the flickering light of my final candle, I etched into parchment my fantastical hallucinations. Thrusting the document towards a nearby crow, the night triumphed. The candle extinguished. As did I. 

Chapter the fourth:

With eyeholes dry, and tongue-cave cracked, I awoke. With the bitter taste of salt in my mouth, I rose to unpleasant memories. What I initially took to be some form of purgatory, materialised in my hazy vision; I was ocean-born; destined for London; rescued. When I arrived back to the capital I was in my twenty-first year. Fate is a cruel jester, and mine was carried not on the wings of angels, but on the wings of a crow; that solitary bastion of night, who did fly my manuscript to London and into the hands of a publisher. I returned a famous writer, my scrawls of insanity published and having found favour country-wide, bringing me no small fortune. That winged beast would remain deep in my affections throughout the rest of my life. A lifelong companionship. I would spend the rest of my wretched existence in the clutches of Mephisto, that soul-reaping harbinger of hell who latched me in his icy clutches that fateful night amidst my malaria-induced delirium.  My future was to be marked by slavery; shackled to pen and paper. But that, O noble reader, is a tale for another night.

To be continued….

Alan Holswick, 2010