John Lennon: No Flies on Frank (In His Own Write, 1964)
as i had been a little moody the past days, i thought it was time for
some “dark” poetry again. but no, this is no melancholic heart-soother,
this is bitter truth spiced by the kinky sarcasm that makes lennons
poems and short stories so remarkable. no flies on frank sounds like a
fake, exaggerated social drama, or a parody of such a thing, but it is
more than that. it is a zany, black humored mirror to show us the
ridiculousness of the things that annoy us or are important to us – at
least we think they are. it shows the twisted, schizophrenic microcosmos
in which everyone of us lives by himsels, up in his head, mostly
unconsciously and perhaps with less dramatic consequences than in the
case of frank. but that is just what john had felt he suffered from, and
realized that all of us do, but seldomly notice. enjoy your trip
through this mad, freudian analysis of an outwardly sick but in fact
ordinary mind.
There were no flies on Frank that morning – after all why not? He was a responsible citizen with a wife and child, wasn’t he? It was a typical Frank morning and with agility that defies description he leapt into the barthroom onto the scales. To his great harold he discovered he was twelve inches more tall heavy! He couldn’t believe it and his blood raised to his head causing a mighty red colouring.
“I carn’t not believe this incredible fact of thruth about my very body which has not gained fat since mother begat me at childburn. Yea, though I wart through the valet of thy shadowy hut I will feed no norman. What grate qualmsy hath taken me thus into such a fatty hardbuckle.”
Again Frank looked down at the awful vision which clpuded his eyes with fearful weight. “Twelve inches more heavy, Lo!, but am I not more fatty than my brother Geoffery whose father Alec came from Kenneth – through Leslies, who begat Arthur, son of Eric, by the house of Ronald and April – keepers of James of Newcastle who ran Madeleine at 2-1 by Silver Flower, (10-2) past Wot-ro-Wot at 4/3d a pound?
He journeyed downstairs crestfalled and defective – a great wait on his boulders – not even his wife’s battered face could raise a smile on poor Frank’s head – who as you know had no flies on him. His wife, a former beauty queer, regarded him with a strange but burly look.
“What ails thee, Frank?”, she asked stretching her prune. “You look dejected if not informal,” she addled.
“This nothing but wart I have gained but twelve inches more tall heavy than at the very clock of yesterday at this time – am I not the most miserable of men? Suffer ye not to spake to me or I might thrust you a mortal injury; I must traddle this trial alone.”
“Lo! Frank – thou hast smote me harshly with such grave talk – am I to blame for this vast burton?”
Frank looked sadly at his wife – forgetting for a moment the cause of his misery. Walking slowly but slowly toward her, he took his head in his hands and with a few swift blows had clubbed her mercifully to the ground dead.
“She shouldn’t see me like this,” he mubbled, “not all fat and on her thirtysecond birthday.”
Frank had to get his own breakfast that morning and also on the following mornings.
Two, (or was it three?) weeks later Frank awake again to find there were still no flies on him.
“No flies on this Frank boy,” he thought; but to his amazement there seemed to be a lot of flies on his wife – who was still lying about the kitchen floor.
“I carn’t not partake of bread and that with her lying about the place,” he thought allowed, writing as he spoke. “I must deliver her to her home where she will be made welcome.”
He gathered her in a small sack (for she was only four foot three) and for her rightful home. Frank knocked on the door of his wife’s mothers house. She opened the door.
“I’ve brought Marian home, Mrs. Sutherskill” (he could never call her Mum). He opened the sack and places Marian on the doorstep.
“I’m not having all those flies in my home,” shouted Mrs. Sutherskill (who was very houseproud), shutting the door, “She could have a least offered me a cup of tea,” thought Frank lifting the problem back on his boulders
There were no flies on Frank that morning – after all why not? He was a responsible citizen with a wife and child, wasn’t he? It was a typical Frank morning and with agility that defies description he leapt into the barthroom onto the scales. To his great harold he discovered he was twelve inches more tall heavy! He couldn’t believe it and his blood raised to his head causing a mighty red colouring.
“I carn’t not believe this incredible fact of thruth about my very body which has not gained fat since mother begat me at childburn. Yea, though I wart through the valet of thy shadowy hut I will feed no norman. What grate qualmsy hath taken me thus into such a fatty hardbuckle.”
Again Frank looked down at the awful vision which clpuded his eyes with fearful weight. “Twelve inches more heavy, Lo!, but am I not more fatty than my brother Geoffery whose father Alec came from Kenneth – through Leslies, who begat Arthur, son of Eric, by the house of Ronald and April – keepers of James of Newcastle who ran Madeleine at 2-1 by Silver Flower, (10-2) past Wot-ro-Wot at 4/3d a pound?
He journeyed downstairs crestfalled and defective – a great wait on his boulders – not even his wife’s battered face could raise a smile on poor Frank’s head – who as you know had no flies on him. His wife, a former beauty queer, regarded him with a strange but burly look.
“What ails thee, Frank?”, she asked stretching her prune. “You look dejected if not informal,” she addled.
“This nothing but wart I have gained but twelve inches more tall heavy than at the very clock of yesterday at this time – am I not the most miserable of men? Suffer ye not to spake to me or I might thrust you a mortal injury; I must traddle this trial alone.”
“Lo! Frank – thou hast smote me harshly with such grave talk – am I to blame for this vast burton?”
Frank looked sadly at his wife – forgetting for a moment the cause of his misery. Walking slowly but slowly toward her, he took his head in his hands and with a few swift blows had clubbed her mercifully to the ground dead.
“She shouldn’t see me like this,” he mubbled, “not all fat and on her thirtysecond birthday.”
Frank had to get his own breakfast that morning and also on the following mornings.
Two, (or was it three?) weeks later Frank awake again to find there were still no flies on him.
“No flies on this Frank boy,” he thought; but to his amazement there seemed to be a lot of flies on his wife – who was still lying about the kitchen floor.
“I carn’t not partake of bread and that with her lying about the place,” he thought allowed, writing as he spoke. “I must deliver her to her home where she will be made welcome.”
He gathered her in a small sack (for she was only four foot three) and for her rightful home. Frank knocked on the door of his wife’s mothers house. She opened the door.
“I’ve brought Marian home, Mrs. Sutherskill” (he could never call her Mum). He opened the sack and places Marian on the doorstep.
“I’m not having all those flies in my home,” shouted Mrs. Sutherskill (who was very houseproud), shutting the door, “She could have a least offered me a cup of tea,” thought Frank lifting the problem back on his boulders
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