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January 15, 2015

All Oscar nominees for Best Actress award are women

For the first time in history, all the nominees for Best Actress at the Oscar’s are women.

The surprise turnaround follows sustained pressure from feminist activist groups, who called the decision to give the coveted Best Actress award to male nominees at the last 85 Oscars “shambolic”.

“In this day and age, it should really be women who are nominated for the Best Actress award”, said one such feminist activist. “They didn’t burn their bras for nothing, you know.”

The Academy, long known to be one of the most undemocratic voting systems in the world (only behind FIFA and the country in Kafka’s ‘The Trial’), bowed to such innovative slogans as “Women should win Best Actress” and “Down with this sort of thing”.

For the first time, voting for the Best Actress category was not carried out by a lone angry upper class white man from the US. Instead, this year, there were two angry upper class white men from the US.

Barry Steinfield, who came up with the idea to expand the voting panel in this way, explained his decision thusly: “What we realised was that you can’t have just one person from a very specific background be the sole decision maker on something like that.”

“By opening up the panel in the way that we did, we’ve really managed to diversify the whole thing. But don’t just take my word for it: the proof is in the pudding! I honestly don’t think we would achieve what we have done this year were it not for our restructuring of the panel in this way,” Steinfield continued.

“It ultimately all dawned on us, while we were sipping champagne one breakfast, that it’s really important that women are nominated for the Best Actress award,” he added. “Otherwise it might send out the wrong message.”

There was plenty of backslapping among the feminist activists after the Oscar nominations were announced, but the news has also been greeted warmly by normal women, too.

Marie Femme, a woman, told this reporter: “It’s just great that only women have been nominated for the Best Actress award this year.”

“It will make a change from seeing the award go to Tom Hanks every year,” Femme added.


September 17, 2014

Darren in Darien

Like stout Cortez

He will not fall

On Darien’s high peaks and hills

In valleys he will walk until

He hears the sound of Scotland’s call


No more will he hear Big Ben toll

Out on the land where workers toil

In run-down houses and degraded soil

In vain for fifty years or more

Under iron fists and broken laws


By the Thames they shout and squeal

And promise there’ll be no more meals

They bang their fists and shake their heads

But he wrings his hands; he’s made his bed


“They’re only ever words of fear

In time they’ll fade and disappear

So raise your hands and drink your beer

Our sweetest-hearts and mother’s dear

Are the only ones who have our ears


It may be true, our day is here,

Though frightening; it may appear

The chance is there for us to seize

We’ll ride our luck, as Ulysses

Made his own way on stormy seas


The sun is out and the lilac’s blooming

The shadow of the past is brooding

Phantom-like in darkened corners

Lets rid the past of would-be mourners!”


His shout cries out but all alone

He finds himself on rugged stone

Volcanic lava that once was molten

Dead as granite, and only frozen


He stands a shadow on barren crag,

A dim sea beside him as feeling lags

That he’s still to seek that name he lacks

With no place to sleep and his bedrooms taxed


His health is weak and the wind is strong

It knocks the breath from weakened lungs

The voice they carry, lost in the throng

Of fearful waves against the rock

That beat in time with London’s clock

– A city t’would be painted gold

If only it weren’t already sold

At vast expense, they had been told

But no one dare to speak out bold

And question: with that great expense

Could they bring back some common sense?


“Greatest hopes that had been placed

Now drift away as the margin fades

Men fight fire with only fire,

Though the need is great and warnings dire

To do much else just leaves them tired”


The tide turns as his mother chides him

She nods his head when he says ‘they’re lying’,

They often do, those men in power

They smoke cigars in phallic towers

And compensate for small endowments


“Our chance can come again,” she said,

“Not on ballot paper, but in our heads,

And in our minds; so if you please

Go live your life to the lees

They cannot take what they cannot see.”


August 21, 2014

Stars

Loosely jacketed against the frost bite

In the air, tight on the skin and in the strands

Of hair follicles. Beneath the swarming stars

On the dais of the earth, circling in the dark,

No light falling on them but only around them,

On a high prairie, chalk stone on the horizon,

They heard horses, jaunty, in the distance,

Though coming to that place finding no trace

That a herd ever had crossed it. And thinking the

Light from those stars may have carried them up

And borne them from the dark earth,

The electricity of night about them and

Walking through a myriad of different

Celestial pathways

They came at once to an ancient orchard

Where the fruit was of their own making.

Though it was cold, they stole like thieves

Loosed from a chain-gang and stumbling

Upon a treasure trove of different worlds

Ten thousand universes and futures ahead of them

And infinite possibility abounding like the swarming stars

There and always there for their choosing

Though until this night always just out of reach.


July 02, 2014

Spider Bites

Studying the prickling heat on his skin,

Imagining each spot of pain to be spider bites,

Pricking flesh and spilling not quite blood

but a liquid coloured at the edge of it.

He felt no appetite, for there were no apples

Like those apples he tasted that afternoon,

He had never tasted apples like those.

Not before nor since.

There were never apples like that again

And the sun beats down on his forgetfulness

And memory seems shattered:

The smell of rain, fresh on the stone

Of paving slabs and steps beside the lawn

Where he ran on the wet grass and fell:

He fell more than he should

but it did not matter.


June 16, 2013

Father's Day

Merry father's day!
Not much of a poet, but I'm just gonna say,
I couldn't get you any moet* (they were sold out I'm afraid)
But inspite of all the Hallmark commercialism,
I just wanna thank you for your loving paternalism,
Yeah, there are so many words than end with ism,
But I don't want to talk about Marxism or extremism,
Just incase those folks at Prism are listenin'
So I'll rap this short poem up,
By saying you are very loved,
Now enough of all that pansy stuff,
I'm gonna go do some manly press ups.

Happy Fathers day!

* for the purposes of this poem, Moet is pronounced like Poet. Nice & gruff, none of this Frenchy wordy stuff


August 24, 2011

Saturn.

Dear God,

I wasn’t breast fed. And

Most of my conversations with men, seem

Stifling. Revolving around hip size and


You probably didn’t kiss Mary when you knocked her up.


Seconds are secular, minutes, minute and

The scales of dead fish from oil slicks

Are echoes from the parties which took place


Inside Egyptian tombs and pyramids.


The factor is me,

Pictured;

Standing next to a photograph of a portrait of

Abraham Lincoln, Beneath the surface of our purpose

Lies rumours of ancient rain,

Different moments in time's continuum has allowed history to

catch up with

The present.


Unravel our eyelids so that we may ingest the clouds

Which have descended and are descending

Over Washington.


London sits in what would be its shadow

Had the lack of light not meant casting shadows

Is now purely metaphorical.


Depending on how you look naked,

Stripped of demeanor,

Is hereafter how one shall judge the state of the economy

Our anatomy, large, small, slim, spot covered,

Is a far more accurate representation of what’s going on

Behind closed doors in canary wharf,

But I’ve seen David Cameron naked when we were at Eaton together,

And then again at Oxbridge,

And from experience I can assure you he looks absolutely gorgeous

Which means that we’ll be fine.


We’ll be standing alongside the bankers,

Who are currently letting the sun soak their skin

On high board Haitian holidays,

In no time at all.


Though we are small compared to rain drops,

As they fall in our mouths we may conjure silver,

The slivers that fall, scraps, from the high table,

There, Jesus sits, tired from talk, and

Full of spite for you, God.

That you have overshadowed the name of mortal men.


Lightning is crashing over me and through me as I wait outside,

Looking into the last supper through a slat in the window.

They boast and mutilate food and laugh

At the foolish lamb spinning round the base of a tree which

Grows from the floor of the room.

The lack of natural sun has stunted the growth of its leaves.


There are ice cubes lodged in my naval.

Meanwhile a woman, enclosed by a thatched litter pulled

By slaves, sits in the lotus position. Her eyes are shrouded

Behind a silk scarf. A pendant hangs from a necklace

I can comprehend its value but not its meaning.


I slept, once. Framed by the skulls of my grandparents.

We do not remember dreams, only nightmares,

Werewolves hunt in mountain ranges, slipping

Across the edge of ancient glacier lakes,

They have neglected the travails of their hearts,

Blood has been washed from their mouths,

They dance in worship of Saturn, a planet fringed by a rainbow,

For they know only believers in death, die.

They would sing, yet their lips have been sown together,

And their tongues sit in the back of their throats,

My darling Saturn.


You are not mine to own, nor mine to satiate,

Ride the tide towards divinity,

Senses; now finely tuned instruments,

Damned indecision,

Follow the voice of children, dancing for the devil.


Sincerely yours.


August 10, 2011

It begins

I have no reason to write right now. Okay, on reflection that was a stupid thing to say when you’ve taken the effort to sit cross legged on your new double bed with your back against the wall and opened a word document. I spent a good ten minutes between the opening credits of the Sopranos and staring open mouthed at my girlfriend’s Facebook page umming and ahhing about whether I should try and justify this evening of sloth by putting finger to keyboard. I have thousands of reasons to write; I just said that I didn’t to look cool. I started this pre-meditated article like that so it would look like I pinch out an article with the same ease that a dog shits on the pavement. The truth is that I can’t I just want you to think I can so I make up excuses not to write things. So that aside, here are some of the reasons that I have tried to suppress in order to fully realise a state of feeling sorry for myself. As I mentioned before it’s a pretty good way of making you think that you’ve done something productive with your day. I guess that says a lot about me; if the only way I can feel good about what I’ve achieved in the daylight hours is by saying I managed to do something with my hands while I sat down apart from masturbating. I just imagine a Mercian serf coming home to his small holding after a long day of back breaking labour and avoiding ox excrement when his unwashed serf wife asks him what he did with his day and he replies, “Oh, I lay down for hours on end and then moved into a sitting position so that my hands would be nearer my face to shovel Doritos down my gob”. Another reason I have for writing is that it expels all those nasty feelings of loneliness from my life. Of course writing isn’t the only thing I can do to forget how cripplingly self-absorbed the time I’m spending awake is. I’d normally read a good book, browse some pointless websites or walk up and down the stairs. These processes have done me well in the past. I feel visibly smarter when I read a book; it’s a rewarding experience. I feel like if I nip down to the co-op for a pint of milk people are going to look at me as if engorged grey matter is pressing against the insides of my temples; that people would look at me as if I had pointed out to them that the reason their car wasn’t moving was that the wheels were square. The problem with all these things is that writing’s the only thing that actually gives me a release for the mounting piles of pure bat-shit insanity in my head. Maybe it’s being in a house designed for four all by myself where lights randomly flicker on and off or just refuse to turn on at all. Generally this style of living has contributed to my already high anxiety levels topped up by nicotine boost after nicotine boost. Every time I hear someone walk past the window I assume a) they’re either going to try and leap through my 1st storey bedroom window proclaiming that Cthulu the dark lord has come for my soul or b) they’re going to be massacred by Cthulu springing from the shadows. In the distance earlier this evening I could hear some sort of firework display/ random celebratory explosion event and I kid you not, I prepared for the impending vengeance of the Cloverfield monster.Is this the behaviour of a mad person or the behaviour of a bored person?


July 31, 2011

Living

She told me that she had a dream I was dying. Dying in a pool of blood, she said. In a field of torn bodies, she said. In war, she said. And she said that it felt as if she was giving birth to me, although when I died it was as if every millimeter of her body ached with a pain that crushed her rather than set her free. She told me and I said that it was just a dream and that I wasn’t going to die, that there was no war on and in any case if there was I wouldn’t join the army because I wasn’t patriotic and didn’t want to die for anyone who asked me to fight for a country I don’t believe in. But she told me she had seen the wounds in my flesh, had felt the short inhales of breath I gasped at; choking on blood. She had seen my eyes stop seeing the world and had ached as my lungs tore themselves apart inside me. I said I had to go to work. 

And I finished school and took up the full time job Mister Solomon offered me as a joiner. And each day on my way to work I would walk beside the field where the gypsies camped and the gypsy horses grazed and in summer the wild flowers came alive with insects which hovered sweetly in the air. I would return home in the evening and cut the potatoes and carrots from our garden and my mother would prepare the rest of the food and we would sit together at the wooden table side by side and look out of the window past our little garden to the graveyard where my father was buried. I would wait till she had finished her food and begin to clear the plates and cutlery away and she would tell me she had dreamt that I had died again and I would tell her that I had not died and she would not say another word as I washed what needed to be cleaned and left to have a drink with Rory at the ‘Arms. 

Then one day she wouldn’t help me prepare the meal, and wouldn’t accept the food I put out in front of her. She said nothing. She looked at her food and at nothing else and I tired of waiting for her to start and ate my own and asked her why she would say nothing and not eat. And she started to cry. She didn’t make any noise and she only wept two crystal tears which clung to her cheek and froze there. And so I stood and went across to her and put my hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head and suddenly she gasped outward and moaned terribly and she shuddered in my arms and she begged me to leave her, she said that she couldn’t see me because I had died and she asked me to leave her alone and she asked me not to stay with her because she couldn’t see me because I was dead. So I left to join Rory at the pub. 

As autumn began to course through the trees, I began walking through the graveyard rather than beside the field which the gypsies had camped in. The moment they left the field I began to feel a coldness on the inside of my stomach if I walked my old route. The grass beside the path appeared grey and the individual blades seemed to lose their clarity and definition as they became diluted with an unknown poison. The field enclosed the path in a sphere of muted ambience. And if the wind were to attempt to permeate this sphere it would transform into the sound of the gypsy horses. 

The graveyard held in it’s confines the lost limbs and names of ten generations of people from the village. Though the church had been destroyed a century ago no new one had been built, and burial ceremonies were taken by Mister Thompson, as he was the only person in the village to have ever read the holy book. Only people born in the village were buried here. There had once been a traveller who came from the East who had taken up residence here in the generation before mine. He had died one night in a storm. The oak which had grown in his garden had blown over into his house and had crushed him in his bed. The villagers would not bury him in the graveyard and would not touch his corpse so they heaped tonnes of earth over his house; creating the tumulus which now stands on the outskirts of the village. 

I never stray from the central path in the graveyard. I never see my father’s grave. His name hangs on my breath yet lacks the substance to form itself around my lips and tongue into sound. The large crypts and celtic crosses which line the central avenue emit a warmth which smothers the flesh and comforts it. As I leave the graveyard I carry the warmth home and back to my house where I find my mother standing on the landing looking out through the upstair’s window. She stands motionless and says nothing as the wind brushes the long grass creating waves which float through the fields as if waves on a calm sea. 

One morning before sunrise my mother began to scream. Her voice broke the particles of my bones. She screamed throughout day and night for two days. Our corner of the street was avoided totally and people began to mutter that my mother was cursed. Their muttering and whispering filled the village and shook the branches of the trees with their weight. Birds stopped flying over the village. The pigeons which belonged to Mister Carr flew away and never returned. The farmer’s two sheepdogs were found beside the river in the forest; dead, as if frozen by an inner turmoil. My mother stood in her room screaming at the same pitch as I stood beside her, holding her shoulders and trying to soothe her with my voice, letting the shadow of my breath warm her ear. 

After she stopped screaming she became silent. I returned to work. She took to dead-bolting the front door so I would have to nip in through the back garden and squeeze myself through the kitchen window which I could prize open using a thin stick. I began to notice Susan Ellis in the house next to ours watching me break into my house from her bedroom window and I would smile at her and she would blush and flash a perfect set of teeth between her subtle lips. 

During the winter, our work became in demand and I would head home in the dark with a handheld lantern through the streets of the village as I made my way to the graveyard. One night I was stopped beside the coach house by Miss Karla whose husband had left for America and died on the journey over there and who dressed in clothes from the city and had sold her wedding ring when she heard her husband had died. She asked me to help fix her door so that it would close. She showed me to her house and as I stood on a small stool to fix the joinery of her door she put a hand on my hip and I looked into her eyes and saw. 

I walked home that night stepping quickly over the cobbles with the stink of it still on me. I jumped into the kitchen and into my mother’s room and I felt it on my breath. My mother stood and shouted that I was dead again and I said I wasn’t dead mother I was alive and she screamed and said that blood was pouring out of my mouth and my teeth were loosening in my gums as they decayed and she could see the death rising beneath my eyeballs and my skin was tightening and there was blood on my clothes and my hand was gripping to a hand which had left me.

She paced across to me and she spat in my eye and I struck her across the cheek with my hand and she gasped as she fell to the floorboards and a thin film of blood formed on her flesh where the coarseness of my hand had cut her face. She put a fingertip to her cheek and she tasted the blood and looked at me and I told her to see, that that was what real blood tasted like. 

I went straight to the graveyard and began to look for my father’s grave. The warmth from the graves lingered over me, draped across my shoulders. I inspected each grave and could not find my father’s. I wasn’t sure if this was because he wasn’t buried here or because I couldn’t remember what his name was. I propped my lantern against a celtic cross and sat down beside it, crossing my legs. It began to snow. Each snowflake settled securely on the limestone. I opened my mouth and let snow fill in the space between my tongue and gums. The back of my neck was warm. I looked to the sky and the stars weren’t there. 

So my father wasn’t buried in the graveyard. Or his name had finally left my memory completely. The last strands of it had been severed from my mind, cut out from my vocabulary and thoughts. My mother was found one day walking through the wood, almost naked. Mister Thompson said she had seen the devil. I took a few days off work and spoon fed her watery soup as she lay in bed. Once, she started at the touch of the liquid to her lips and looked at me, I smiled at her, but she closed her eyes and began to cry. 

Rory began to go out with Eileen Jones. She used to sit with us at the pub as we talked beside the fire place. She would listen to us carefully, not saying anything that would jeopardize her relationship with Rory, for Rory was inclined to go cool on her if he thought she was trying the undermine him in front of me. One evening before spring, she told us she heard war was coming. Rory said that he would fight, that he wasn’t afraid to die, that he was ready to kill another human being. I said that he wasn’t old enough to fight anyway, he said that he would be by the time war came - if it was coming at all - and that we should fight together as brothers on the battlefield. We shook hands and laughed and he bought us two more drinks. 

Three nights before my eighteenth birthday my mother slipped into a thirty-six hour sleep. When she woke she saw me and asked her to fetch her some food and a drink of water. She smiled as I came back with what she asked and she touched the side of my face. She told me that she had dreamt about the day she had given birth to me. How I had cried so loudly the doctor had left the room, but how I had stopped the moment my mother had stroked my cheek with the back of her finger. She tells me that she loves me and I return the phrase. I look out of the window and watch a bird fly down and land in the bird bath in our garden. 

The summer heat brings the insects back to the field flowers. The grass grows strong and defined, but the gypsies never return. On the evening of my birthday I walk with  Susan Ellis into the field and we lie down, hidden by the grass. She feels small in my arms and her breath is soft. It is the longest day of the year, yet the sun doesn’t seem to set at all. In the morning we wake and stay together in the grass, she asks if I will go to war with Rory, I say that I will stay with her and she grips my hand. 

The next weekend my papers arrive. I burn them in the fire. Mister Thompson calls round and asks to see my mother. He stays in her room with the door locked for several hours. When he leaves he bumps into me on the landing and pushes something into his pocket hurriedly. He says that the devil is still with my mother. I go into the room after he has left the house and she is crying dry tears. She says she can see the blood on my clothes, and that she saw me in the field. She says that she cannot feel me anymore. She says that she has given birth to a ghost. 

A man comes and tells me that if I don’t report to the barracks with him now he will arrest me and I will be shot. I ask if I can say goodbye to Susan and he says yes, I can. I knock on her door but she doesn’t answer and the man tells me that he doesn’t have the time, that I have to come with him now. At the barracks I see Rory getting into the back of a troop transport lorry. He smiles and waves at me. I salute him as he disappears through the gate of the barracks. 

On the third day of basic the man who sleeps in the bed next to mine loses his fingers when his rifle misfires. I look at him and see him counting time in his head silently as he stares at the blood and covering his mutilated hand. As he reaches thirty seconds he opens his mouth and the terror grips him and he falls on his back and flails and writhes on the floor and has to be restrained by two others. But they hold his chest too tight and they don’t realise he’s having an asthma attack and he dies there, in the training field. And I lay awake that night looking at the shrouded ceiling and see nothing and everything as the memory of what stars look like tethers itself around a part of my brain I had forgotten existed and I remember the look on my father’s face as he sat me on top of the gypsy horse and dappled sunlight comforts my eyes. 

As I take my first post as night watchman I read the letter I had been given in the morning. It is from Rory, he tells me that he is well and has been promoted to sergeant. He says he wishes we were fighting side by side and that when we get some leave he will buy me a pint. He asks if I have heard any news from the village. I fold the letter and put it into my chest pocket next to my cigarettes. My breath rises in front of my eyes and as I rub my hands together someone arrives and tells me my shift is over. 

We destroyed ourselves with machines. Tore our bodies apart with cruel manufactured metals. The fields are ravaged and beaten, and forests are uprooted. They say that we are fighting against evil. They shot MacInnes when he said this was more pointless than the Great War. A young boy’s dead face looks up at me from a hole in the ground. His face is a distant memory. The field is full of nameless dead who will not be buried. I look out across hell as the sun begins to rise and I think of my father. 


July 17, 2011

These days.

This is the silence that comes from paying back debt,

I’m indebted to you, we’re all in this together, One for all

And one for each other, Well I’ve slept long enough in this

Facade of a dream world in this real world where my feet crunch

Over dollar bills on cobbled streets where rivers meet,

Stirred by sleet they rise and swell against these

Bastian walls, only time will tell etcetera

cliched phrase, etcetera

Well we were part of this star trek generation which assumed

Beings from all nations and across the universe spoke Anglais.

Now I’m afraid if we were ever speaking from the same language;

The same page, then we’ve underestimated how poor we are at

Understanding this riskier business they call banking

But seems more like a free for all, an unregulated brawl

In a tavern where the landlord sits and takes tabs.

Sometimes I wake as if I've fallen through the looking glass,

Found myself in wonderland, a never, never land,

Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, mere commodities to sell,

And those who found themselves here, deviated course and

Now live, underrated making pornographic films, in

These dust bowl cities, circling those cataclysms of foreclosure

Where catastrophe is creeping into the streets, sleeping

Next to those whose homes were on the edge of the bubble,

The trouble is this watermarked catastrophe has crawled into bed

And is snoring next to the government, Ignoring the

Sub-prime by watching prime-time television soap operas.

If they put onus on home ownership why won’t they own up

Like grown ups won’t own up to their kids when they make mistakes.

Now I haven’t been to Baltimore, but I’m sure if I did,

I’d feel bad for having grown up in a home

That wasn’t threatened with repossession,

And that my parent’s divorce was the closest I came to ever feeling remorse,

Well that might not be true of course but true apology is hard to come by these days.


July 10, 2011

Killing

He hadn’t killed anybody. Light sifted dust onto the picture-perfect masterpiece he had painted of the world on the inside of his eyelids. He rested prone on shards on broken concrete which cracked as he shifted his balance and tried to evade the co-ordinates of war.

He was the pre-eminent Voltaire scholar in the country. Before the universities had been destroyed, being the pre-eminent Voltaire scholar in the country meant something. Now, all that had meaning veiled itself on the melted children’s swing sets. He was the pre-eminent Voltaire scholar in the country and he hadn’t killed anybody.

They were going to destroy the building that sheltered him. They had told him; if only to be polite. He should leave, but death was outside and the taste of pain would clutch his vallate papillae. Voltaire said that the young were fortunate. He was in a building which would be destroyed and which he could not leave. Perhaps the young were fortunate; he was certainly destined.

He had watched a miss-thrown grenade sever a man’s legs. The man had lain where he fell, alive, without any effort to move or cry out. At one moment the man had watched a news cameraman wash his body with photographs before heading away from the conflict zone to publish his photos in a well read journal. He had once left his prone position to crouch and try to look into the man’s eyes. All he found - as the man blinked slowly in the sun - was a futility which made him vomit.

A few days ago he had begun to see them. Bodies, drawing themselves through the streets, with broken skin dashed with grey. He would lie in stasis and let them draw closer. Then his hands would begin to bleed. Red droplets seeping through his pores and dropping onto monochrome flooring. A scorpion begins a war dance an inch from his face, clicking its arachnoid limbs against man-made stone. The scorpion’s tale teases its sting in the air as it oscillates, mimicking the pendulum which hung in the grandfather clock in his office. He would wake up when the scorpion stung his face, only to look out to the sky and find the moon dripping down his back. He was still in a building which they were about to destroy. He was the pre-eminent Voltaire scholar in the country. He hadn’t killed anybody, and at night he saw dead people.

The romantic sun of a childhood summer would grow a heavy heat a few hours after it had dawned. In the idyllic cool of the morning he picked himself from the floor and made his way to the floor below. He past the scattered bullet holes from a firing squad which had been assembled before the uprising had become a war.

The metallic pressure of a gun barrel reminded him of sharp rain in June.


“I am the pre-eminent Voltaire scholar in the country.” His voice mechanically intoned as his body hunched over his knees. He regarded the floor in the same way the pest-controller had done as he searched the skirting boards for termites whilst his mother cried and his father beat his fist on the table.

“How many of you are there?” The way the vowels were carved was a requiem for a teenage summer of bonfires; when students from the school in the town across the river had joined his own to drink and make love whilst talking about everything that didn’t matter.

“I’m the only Voltaire scholar in the country. Are you from Neum?”

The man whose vowels were too long paused and shifted the gun in his grip. “Yes. How many rebels are there in the building with you?”

“I’m the only one. They’re going to destroy this building.”

“I know, there are too many guns fixed on the streets outside though, to leave is to die for sure. Get up.”

The gun rustled and clicked as it was brought away from his neck. He got to his feet and turned to face a soldier with young eyes hidden behind a camouflaged face.

“Do you have a weapon?”

They had given him a rifle left behind by a man who had been killed. It would have been an injustice to be seen by one of his old students holding a weapon. He had thrown the rifle into the river. “No.”

“Sit down.” Youthful eyes widened as they struggled to believe such grace.

“You just told me to get up.”

“Now I’m telling you to sit down.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a gun and you don’t.”

It was an matter of fact. It is impossible to argue against such feats in times such as these. The residing facts that he was the pre-eminent Voltaire scholar in the country, trapped in a building they were going to destroy and that he had not killed anybody remained; yet they remained vitally less immediate than previously.

Through the empty space of a forgotten window, the curious trajectory of sight allowed him to see past the buildings to a space of fields beyond. A breeze which does not enter the city made waves in the long grass.

“How did you know I’m from Neum?

“I grew up in Vares.

The soldier flashed a warm smile of teeth left unattended for many days. “Hell. Why are you on their side then?”

It was the time when people knew it was almost summer. He would walk the goat path between Travnik and Jajce, which contoured as if lifted from some children’s picture book. They had shot him and left him for dead beside the path, hidden by the nettles which the goats ate. They didn’t kill his wife until they had let the war burn in their veins and their genitals.

“I was inspired.”

“To fight against your country.”

“Don’t misunderstand me. I love this country, as much as I pity it.”

The soldier squatted in front of him, placing the rifle on the floor beside him as he searched his person for a cigarette. In the silence of the empty living room, long cleared of any furniture or touches that once made it a home, a memory stirred of the silence which met his last lecture. It had not been a silence of awe.

“In Vares,” The soldier spoke between inhales of nicotine, “do you remember that girl, Bobo they called her. The one with the-”

“Excellent, exquisite-”

“Yes.”

“She loved tapestries.”

“She did! What a thing to love.”

Tapestries told stories through their weave similar to those his grandmother told him as he watched the fire in his house at winter. His cousins and sisters around him, they would listen intently to tales of castles on hilltops and sieges which lasted years. They were romantic enough for him to fall in love with them.

The soldier stood and crossed the room to look out onto the streets. Preoccupied with his cigarette, he had left his rifle on the floor.

“Do you know when they’re going to destroy the building?”


The weight of the rifle felt the same as the weight of gold they said his father owed.

“No. Sit down.”

The soldier tossed his cigarette to the ground and let his neck tilt backwards in bemusement. “Why?”

“Because I have the gun; and you don’t.”

The soldier smiled and sat with his back against the wall. The heat of the day was building, and the broken glass which could be found wherever anyone chanced to look glinted too brightly.

“Have you killed anyone, Vares?”

“Yes.”

“I trained for this war beside blue glaciers which cracked the sunlight that fell upon them. When the war began, I saw my friends torture a rebel recruit who wasn’t old enough to fuck anyone let alone make love to any person. I did nothing. Then when my best friend returned from a rebel prison with his eyes torn out, I did nothing. The first man I killed was through a scope, two hundred yards from where I sat. It was near Travnik that I shot him, I should have shot the lady he was with though; her fate was crueler than any bullet. Killing is a process, not an act. Don’t you think, Vares?”

The soldier’s voice began to fade as a white light formed across his retinas. His ears clogged with a pitch too high which felt as if it should melt. His mouth felt as if it was filling with blood that was pouring from empty gums. He needed a cigarette, or else something to take the taste away from his tongue.

He thought of the children’s swing sets, and of the bomb. He remembered the chemicals which they had put in the water. The chemicals which cut the stomach open.


Soldiers are trained to act when their enemy is disoriented.


“Drop the gun.” The soldier pressed the manufactured steel blade into his throat.

He did so, his hands appreciated the weightlessness it brought.

“Take off your shoes.”

“Why?”

“Do we need to go over it again?”

His trousers and shirt followed his shoes. The humidity of the day stuck to his bare flesh with no wind to peel it away. He would have shivered had it not been so childishly delightful. He was in nothing but his underwear in the midst of a civil war. He had seen a man photographed for losing his legs. He was the pre-eminent Voltaire scholar in the country and he hadn’t killed anyone.

It wouldn’t be long before they destroyed this building. He felt a splinter of glass bite into the sole of his foot. The sensation of liquid wrapping itself around his bare toes echoed the moment he had stood in the ink which had spread like a halo from the typewriter he had dashed to the floor. He was not sure if this liquid was blood.

The soldier spurred him onwards with the rifle as a cattle rod. The pushes were gentle, yet they demanded something of his body he was unwilling to freely give.

“I should have gone to university, I would have studied philosophy. My father wouldn’t have it; I was to be a soldier like him. But to have my youth again; I’d leave this entire place, this world, this war that divides us. I remember my mother when she was dying, her body shriveled and grey. I was afraid to touch the death I saw in her. When I asked her if she was afraid she shook her head. Some of the soldiers spoke about immortality they found in the mountains. But it’s not here, not in this place. Only the death that shrouds us. It makes you wonder how it will be when you die. What it would be like to know that this breath was the last you would ever draw. I just hope I can face death in the same way my mother did; with the same calm.”

The soldier had brought him to the main entrance of the building; it had long since resembled the cavern to the dark caves parents warned their children about. The caves which swallow adventurous children.

“The army is camped straight ahead. Walk towards them like this and they won’t shoot. They won’t understand what you are. As for the rebels, even they wouldn’t shoot the pre-eminent Voltaire scholar in the country when he’s in his underwear. Do it now, because I have the gun and you don’t.”

He shuffled away from the soldier. His back to the gun he felt on his spine. The sun was obscured by the height of the building, yet the air hang as a still shadow draped forever on him. The bullet would pass straight into his flesh, shattering bones without any imagined knight’s armour to stop it.

“I just saved your life, Vares!” The soldier called out as two government soldiers ran over to him and led his all but naked form out of the streets.



Yours.

I stepped from the pavement onto the snow,

The memories yet to be seemed frozen,

Yet to grow, flowed like treacle in a swamp of

Grime, iron fringed orange overhung it all through

The passage of time which I didn’t have, waiting

For a public bus. It’s ours.


April 21, 2011

Bold

Embittered memories embrace shadows which cling to those who are waiting for the hail of fanfare. He walked into the room and saw on the table a fist, clenched tightly around a jewell he had forgotten about in times gone by when there were dragonflies which swam in deep oceans, glittering manifestations which embroiled around spoils of war, there he was because of what he was; one with the thyme and masters of stars. eat and you can’t see the world through my eyes; all things shining in darkness where light was once gleaned and torn out of the hearts and minds of villages, burnt in buildings of hope degraded, decrepit walls, aflame with the lost remembrance of futile agony, a wanton destruction which cannot let the soul ream deep into realms of fire passion sword. I did not know where the glances came from yet I feel the breath of the wind on my skin my feathers alight and lift in the breeze of humanity which was more than not capable of such great feats. Bursts of heartbreak ignite in glittering skies. 


April 12, 2011

When I am old and still the same inside.

I’ve buried you.

In the sands which washed us,

Fleeting. 

Too full of imagination. 

Closed in by water marks. 

Cut off what I can. 

To take this, solitude. 

You astonish me. 

In every place I’ve been, 

I’ve buried you. 

This, heroic act, 

The denouement of Achilles. 

The sting of rain, 

Embittered and recreated by the

Fingers of the violinist. 

You return, 

Rest in my shaking hands. 

These hands that cannot draw. 


April 02, 2011

Sensuous, Sexually Driven Flirtation With Writer's Block.

He had tried starting In Medias Res but the burning sensation of cliche which caught fire to his mind kept pulling him back. 

He had read Paradise Lost twice. 

He had gone to the theatre and watched Antony and Cleopatra, hoping the bard’s flashing images of the Egyptian Queen’s river boat carrying her along beneath the sun with its sails gorging themselves on the wind would tease some inspiration out of his blood. 

He had started listening to heavy metal. That hadn’t helped at all. It had only given him a headache. 

He knew character’s characteristics and had characterized them as best he could in the recesses of his thought patterns; where tenuous links with his other works in progress fused together in a tangled chicken mesh coup of intricate plot devices. 

He had worked out that his was a tale of unrequited love, deceit, treachery and betrayal set against the backdrop of the Crimean War, influenced by Marxist feminist philosophies with several scenes taking place in space. 

In short, he was fucked. 


He recited extracts of phrases and merged them together in stunning patterns of soliloquies and monologues. Sometimes he used descriptive passages which flowed through his skin, stretching tendrils of half-formed voices across pages thin as silk. 

He put biro to lined paper then changed the biro to a fountain pen for aesthetic reasons then changed the lined paper for a note pad then changed tack and bought a type writer. The type writer was rusty and he couldn’t upload what he’d written to facebook or send it as an e-mail so he bought a lap-top. He left that on the bus so he bought a Mac. 

Having a Mac didn’t make him a writer like the man in the shop said. He stared at a blank document as swallows flitted and flirted with one another in the sky outside, and the willow branches painted brush strokes of fresh air on the wind. 


He decided to start his masterpiece by writing the end first. 


Resurrection

Dearest, well, you,

I have been lazy, although not entirely. I have been struggling over the last six months to write. It is not exactly out of laziness. I have been working hard on my degree and reading a plethora of exciting things. I have performed poetry and enjoyed pretending I can make music too. Yet it was all recycled stuff. I'd run out of new and interesting things to say, or even uninteresting things to say in an interesting way. I was full of cliche and lacklustre language. Poetry was a struggle and for a short while (forgive me poetry), I fell out of love with it.

This spell is over however, and I endeavour to return to this little slice of the web to regurgitate rhymes.

It's all quite intimidating watching friends get banking internships and Spring Weeks and post-grad jobs, and I think part of my silence was worry that my future is looking empty. I began to think practically and logically, something that does not come naturally to me and that generally makes me feel quite sick.

Farewell practicality. You do my nerves no good.



Instilled Inclinations.

Wasting time procrastinating 

On infinite idealism, Inspiring 

Perspiration from participating in

Unethical debates, bragging

About the bastardization of the State, 

Working in debilitating degrees

Of silence, Insinuating separation

Scaling the charts, though this

Situation is boring me, evaluate

The depth of the sea, 

Analyze your claims to 

Immortality sporadically; 

Stop being so damn fascinating, 

Stay still for a second, satiate and

Acquire your conception of notions. 

Pouring through vodka bottles

Writing lists of demands surrounded

By statistical evaluation of the 

Primordial evolution of devolution. 

Shade in the colour of your wings, 

They aren’t as pure as scientific potions, 

They begin within the winning mentality, 

They begin with that shared second 

Sitting beside each other on children’s 

Swings. Swinging back towards the

Concentric cyclical crevasse of a

Gothic cathedral’s spiraling staircase,

You can be so much more than your pay-grade

You might have read too many books,

Might have heard to many problematic 

Philosophies, but the confines of your mind

Expose you to your instilled inclinations. 

Cry at what you laughed at and laugh at what 

Others refuse to smile at, curled lips and

Exposed teeth are goddam sexy, 

Not quite as much as a short black skirt

And a need to be loved, but pretty close.

Making the most of nights of revelry

Stops making chivalry look worth

Anything. Anything you want isn’t 

Necessary, it’s all part of the contemporary

Wish to be seen. Stop reading lies in

Social commentaries, stop listening

To rhymes which are totally nonsensical

Whether they are clerical or not, 

Stop speaking aloud to fill silence

Let the silence fill you and engage with it,

Segregate and annihilate your dispositions 

to be disposed to particular theisms and theologies

Which can be laughed at when you understand

Analogies to bland aspects of life like 

Cheese. 



Cheese.

Things are, alright. 

Satisfactory, you might say. 

You might say things here are 

Maybe a little on the dull side

Or just slightly too static. 

I would say, that things are a bit like cheese. 

Cheddar cheese, in fact. 

There are lots of cheeses I could use

But Edam is too classy for this analogy 

And as for those blue cheeses well

They’re too much of a fad. 

Not that I don’t like blue cheese. 

It’s what cheese would taste like 

If it were a colour. I just think

Blue cheese lacks substance. 

It might be popular and a little eccentric

But eventually it will lose it’s popular basis

And fall. 

Unlike Mozzarella. There’s a cheese

With a fine tradition at its foundation. 

It would take a huge scandal for Mozzarella

To tumble. Because of this fact unfortunately

That rules Mozzarella out of the equation too. 

Because the thing with Cheddar, is that

It will do. 

It’s alright. 

It’s satisfactory. 

You can melt it onto most things and they will taste fine

But you wouldn’t take it over mozzarella on Pizza or over 

Blue cheese and crackers. 

That would be ridiculous. 

But you’d take it over not having cheese. 

That goes without saying

So before you being to think where am I going with this

I’m going to talk about life and death. 

And how cheddar, is a little bit better than

Terrible. 

You see, we don’t have it bad. 

We don’t have it great and because of that

We get pissed off; since we know we could have it great. 

But we’re not hungry, 

We’re warm and listening to poetry. 

I’m even a little bit drunk

Which is more than you can say for 

People who aren’t warm, listening to poetry

And who don’t have access to a cheap bar. 

You see I’d take a cheap bar over no bar, 

Poetry over silence, warmth over cold. 

Just as I would take Cheddar cheese over no

Cheese at all. 

So you see, I think I’ve done it,
I think I’ve won the bet

That I made with my friend Jason, 

That I couldn’t make an allegorical comparison

Between the state of humankind

And cheese. 



March 25, 2011

Continuing where I left off

The Collaborator’s Canteen

In the collaborator’s canteen where I paid for five meals a week and ate two
Where Nurse Ratchet guarded warming trays using a ladle for a rifle
On Fridays Fish was served, unspecified marine species drowning in oppressing batter
Suffocating in saturated fat coffins slender ethereal spines freezing in edible setting concrete
And all this based on the myth that moons ago the world’s first revolutionary socialist fed thousands
With gilled martyrs, those who we’ll remember as the Galilee Five.
No-one specified whether it was line caught or whether they had been imported and in what conditions
Were they transported live with catfish to keep all that scalene scaled flesh supple or nubile?
Did they have a tick from the MSC, and if not were they discarded dorsal finless by Japanese whalers
Who were instructed by some higher power that when eating their mid slaughter sandwiches to only eat the bread and throw the filling away.
Nurse Ratchet couldn’t give a swimming fuck, lifting up my hair on the back of my head to tie a blindfold to spare the sight of her cocking the cooking implement.
It’s easy to feed a scad when all you give people is what they can handle rather than employing over-exaggerated marketing ploys; all you can eat, eat as much as you like, eat until there’s bile cascading down the front of your eyeballs as if you just opened your mouth when your mouth’s full of soup
I felt that if I wasn’t a carnivore I couldn’t support a family, a hunter-gatherer with a cave-wife constantly in biblical floods of tears
If I’d have asked Nurse Ratchet if they had any Salisbury, Sirloin or Chateaubriand on the go she’d have blown me then and there, like opening my fly would leak link after link of kielbasa sausage
And try not to misunderstand me because I’d kill for a steak. It’s just that I’m not sure whether to kill the bovine in which the steak resides to qualify myself for meateaterdom or the guy stupid enough to get between me and a steak.
With excess comes in simpler terms retardedness. Spell-check it if you please but put even simpler I don’t boule about the place fucking everything in sight because
a) I’d be that strange person at parties who upon looking at a girl about whom he is discussing with a fellow party goer , midway through conversation as casual as the sex he will no doubt describe that he tapped ‘that’
And b) I would ruin the sexual expectations of everyone involved with my deplorable, odious love-making technique.
Consumers have rarely cared about the medium in which they operate but if foods the operation and the farmer is the scalpel it helps if its sharp and at hand not blunted by frustrated sebaceous sessions and currently embroiled in a commute/import from somewhere they still know how to grow the things we enjoy to consume but couldn’t be bothered how to re-learn how.


March 24, 2011

Joke. Or is it?

A Scot, a Welshman and and 'Irish' man walk into a bar and order some drinks. A few moments later the Englishman arrives. 


As much as they'd like to get rid of him he can't get rid of his imperialist tendencies. 


They start having an argument and the barman tells them to chill out. He is large, doesn't really speak correct English, is in the middle of eating a huge oily sandwich and is American. 


The guys at the bar shut the fuck up. 


In one corner of the bar, thirty or so Chinese folk are living their lives to the full. Everyone else in the bar is a little bit scared of how many of them there are so they ignore them and let one Chinese man exert a cruel dictatorial rule over the rest of his friends. 


Meanwhile, in another part of the bar (it's a pretty big bar), an Iraqi is hitting his Kuwaiti friend over the head with a spoon. The guys at the bar and the barman have access to knives and forks so they decide to sort that shit out. Just to be on the safe side they decide to call in some help. They ring their Canadian friend by accident but feel too mean to tell him after he sounded so excited on the phone so let him come along for the ride. They also ring their French mate cos they know he's always up for a bit of an argument. 


On the other side of the street an Italian man smokes a cigarette in the sun and eats a delicious meal with his beautiful wife. 


February 27, 2011

Faerie Queen event

Writing about web page http://www.kingsplace.co.uk/spoken-word/words-on-monday/edmund-spenser-and-the-faerie-queene

This looks like an amazing event - research talks and performance pieces based on The Faerie Queene. I can't make it, but I'd be fascinated to hear from anyone who makes it!

Programme includes:

David Fuller, Professor of English and former Orator of Durham University, taking us inside the remarkable world of Spenser’s stanza.

Bart Van Es, of St Catherine’s College Oxford, an eminent scholar of Spenser, on the significance of The Faerie Queene.

New verse by distinguished poets Jo Shapcott, Michael Symmons-Roberts, Andrew Shanks, and Ewan Fernie.

Monawar Hussain, Islamic chaplain at Eton College, on the resonances of The Faerie Queen in Muslim communities.

Original drama piece by Simon Palfrey, directed by Elisabeth Dutton, both of Oxford University,performed by an ensemble of professional actors, Oxford students, and inner-city comprehensive schoolchlidren.

Composer and virtuoso Tim Garland, playing his own specially commissioned music inspired by The Faerie Queene.

And, the celebrated Choir of Royal Holloway, University of London, conducted by Rupert Gough, performing music from the time of Spenser.


February 10, 2011

Recycling

Recycling


Eat your dinner silently as

you stare at each other without seeing 

what you saw in each other. 

scrape your leftovers into the red bin

Oh shit you’re supposed to put food in the blue bin!

Now she’s gonna be mad. Maybe if you

get that kitchen towel and scrape it 

from one bin to the other? 

too late she’s in the room she’s seen 

what you’ve done and she’s

screaming again but she’s not

screaming with anger she’s just 

screaming because you’ve both forgotten how you 

used 

to be able to talk to each other softly after making love, 

lying in your cramped single bed with the

light’s on after shagging each other with your clothes on. 


You take out the green bin. The green bin is safe. 

can’t go wrong with a bit of recycling

eco-friendly dave, that’s you, conscientious you

care about whales and lions and even krill cos 

even though it’s not documented, krill have a rough time of it too. 


Out in the yard outside the front of the house you 

knew was just a temporary thing before you 

got your big break

then came matrimony and lying and fucking your secretary soon became 

making love to your secretary 

and soon you were standing under moonlight in Paris

and the moon was dripping down your back

and Mary was crying after the meal

and you didn’t put your arm around her. 



Glass bottles for bottling your liquid aggression 

and cans full of corporate thought

you look over at the neighbours bins and their

recycling bin is empty, 

why is it empty? are they on holiday?

Their audiis are outside, both of them, one green and one red.

You look to your left and your right and there’s

no one in sight so you leap as a fox

an urban fox in the dark

over their stone wall barrier

and you open their black garbage bin

and tear open the bin liner and out spills



cardboard

aluminum

glass

aluminum

glass

cardboard

glass

aluminum

cardboard


Arseholes fucking arseholes man they’re killing the world their killing the environment

fuck them fuck them fuck them fuck them

Don’t they know there are starving children in Ethiopia?

This is the end of the line

you’re tired of letting people slide into this middle class individualism

selfish selfish selfish selfish

Let them eat fire

let them eat petrol

let them drink their fill of smoke

who knew that rags and fuel could fuel a vendetta against the riches

the fire crackles behind the glass

glorious recyclable glass

do they know their house is on fire? 

let them sleep in the fire

let them warm their hearts


oh shit man there was a dog inside and the dog

man it’s going fucking mental it won’t stop barking

it won’t stop barking

it won’t stop barking


head back inside to the cupboard by the stairs

take the extinguisher out. She

watches you but she doesn’t say anything she just

watches you leave with the red extinguisher

you’ve never used one before so she’s going to

watch you struggle

watch as you try to stop the flames


fuck man this is a carbon dioxide extinguisher! 

you’re fueling global warming you idiot

but the dog won’t stop barking

maybe you can get to the shops and buy a new water extinguisher?

shops probably sell extinguishers. 

now their’s this

screaming. Is it her? Is it one of the neighbours? This

screaming is getting closer and louder and it’s filling your brain with

screaming man it won’t go away. 


and there are blue lights in your eyes and the red of the fire 

is melting into your retinas 

blue, red and green...

...and the grey of the police cell.

Will Mary remember to sort out the recycling? 


February 01, 2011

Love, Love Will Tear Us Apart, Again.

Her eyes engulfed him in perpetual longing. He lost himself in her pupils and the transcendent turquoise which gravitated around them like the rings of saturn. Her eyes could wash away from the soul the dust from everyday life, capture the essence of dreams and name the unnameable. Exquisitely perfect, they were only comparable to her deep red lips which were now speaking the words:

-* ** *

He held her gaze in the palm of his hand.

The phone rang.

Baaarp…
...Baaarp
...BAAAAARRRRP!

-Is this all just mumbo-jumbo.

He rose from the bed, pulling the thin white sheets with him as he did so, revealing her silk-smooth naked body. She laughed with beautiful mirth as she too jumped up and quickly rushed passed him, fractionally beating him to the bathroom. She flashed him a broad smile of magnificent happiness as she closed the door.
He raised his arms in mock frustration before realising she would not be able to see his action through the door. He sighed and dropped his hands to his sides. The sun poured through the open windows through the pale and almost transparent curtains. Lines of dust particles hung in the air, reflecting and refracting the light from the glowing orb in the sky. He pulled on a pair of shorts and crossed the room to inspect the thermometer which hung beside the small mirror with the handcrafted metal pattern enclosing it.

g
n
i
s
i
r
d
n
a
30 Degrees

-We’ve got to go. He shouted. They’ve been waiting for us.
-Take it easy, beautiful. She replied from within the torrent of shower water. There will always be people waiting for us.

He smiled and pulled a cigarette out of the packet which lay on the dressing table. As he lit it and drew in his first breath of tobacco a disgusting wailing sound filled the room. A venomous, vehement noise designed to shatter the ear drums and remove thoughts of care from the mind. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and stamped on it as he covered his ears.
The wailing stopped. She opened the bathroom door and beheld him in her sight. He stood motionless as she called out to him.

-Bello, what is wrong?

She moved over to him and placed her hand on his stomach. He looked at her with wide eyes filled with pain. She took his hands in hers and slowly pulled them from his ears. She glanced down to his palms and realised that they were laced with blood. His eyes saw this and began to fill with tears. She pulled his face towards hers,

-ooo ooo oo

Nothing.

-mmm mmm mmmm mm

Nothing.

She hurriedly pulled her blue dress over her body and took his right hand in her left as she led him from the room.

Out of the door. Along the corridor.

Mind the-
Crash into old lady leaving her room

Carry on, she’ll be fine. probably.

Down
The
Stairs.

Onto the street.

The crowd is bigger than usual, and they aren’t milling around like they normally do. They are pushing and surging like the incoming tide towards the west. Squeezing the space out of the street. Chickens squark and jump around their cages, abandoned by stall owners. A taxi gradually forces its way through the tumult. She leads him over to it and opens the driver’s door.

-L’hopital, silvouz plait.
-No, no lady. No taxi, no taxi.
-Why?
-I’m leaving.
-Why?
-I’m leaving. No no, no taxi today. Sorry madame.

Machine gun fire rattles out in the distance, it vibrates in subdued, muffled echoes, distorted by the arid dust.

The crowd panics and surges together and apart again, mimicking tuna in a threatened shoal. She pulls harder on his hand and drags him through the thickets of legs, arms, bodies and faces stricken with terror. A little boy sits with his knees pent up against his chest as he weeps in a stranger’s doorway. The sound of what she thinks is a firework whistles somewhere behind their building. Another round of gunfire, this time from the West, the crowd screams and begins to push their way back the way they were fleeing from. She grips his hand tighter and lets them be carried by the force of the crowd.
They emerge from their street into an empty space which was once packed with market stalls, swindlers, kind merchants and ignorant tourists. He begins to pull her hand backward towards the street. She turns to face him, places her other hand on his wrist and pulls him onward. As the crowd spill out behind them they disperse into crags and forgotten or lost alleyways and they are left alone in the market square.
A helicopter speeds into position above and hangs in the air as ropes extend and three figures drop down them. They hit the floor and the helicopter exits stage left. One of the figures pulls a television camera from his back as the three of them run, hunched towards where she stands with him. The media crew run past them towards the street.

His eyes are filling with red light, permeated by blotches of gold. He really needs a cigarette, or else something strong to take away this taste in his mouth. He scrunches his face and then tries to spit the overwhelming sensation from his taste buds. His tongue feels swollen with the flavour. He can feel hot blood filling his cavities and he knows it won’t stop. He’s going to choke on the blood unless he can spit it out and all the time the taste…the-taste-is-driving-him-insane-man-like-he-can’t-breath-he-can’t-feel-his-legs-his-thoughts-are-slipping-away-and-he-doesn’t-know-where-he-is-or-where-she-is-he-can’t-feel-her-hand-anymore-man-he’s-lost-her-he’s-lost-her-and-he’s-alone-and-he-doesn’t-he-doesn’t-know-what-to-do-and-the-sand-feels-nice-on-the-flesh-of-his-back-man-like-real-nice-it’s-so-comfortable-he-feels-like-he-could-just-lie-here-forever-man-with-the-warmth-of-the-sun-soaking-him-and-keeping-him-safe-he’s-enveloped-by-the-earth-he’s-part-of-it-all-like-part-of-everything-and-he’s-sinking ..slowly ..slowly sinking-into-the-ground-and-it’s-so-beautiful.

She places her arm beneath his neck and lifts him to his feet. His legs shake at first but then his eyes blink and widen and he sees her. She looks into his eyes and he feels reborn as she says.

-* ** *

She squeezes his hand and once more turns back to her task. But she doesn’t have to pull him so much now and he’s following her with ease. They reach the end of the square and she pulls him into the new street. It’s wide but there are two groups of men hiding behind stacks of sandbags with mortars, and at the other end of the street a tank is turning to face them.

And it’s as if drops of the galaxy are falling into his mind. Sensuously washing over the dirt and the sand which has been clogging his senses. It forms in pools of clarity in dark recesses which he had forgotten he had. He pulls her towards him.

-I love you.

And then the tank exploded.


January 24, 2011

The exexexexexexex


I’m not bitter, by the way. 


The exexexexexex is a fantastically brutal creature. She exists in a world of hate permeated by sweet frustration. The beating of her heart sends long thin tendrils of ice skating across your skin. Her sharp teeth sparkle with malice and glint in silver moonlight as if winking at your impending death. Once she has set her eyes on you, you become ensnared in a web of confusion. Her gloriously wicked fingers trace outlines of false love across your body, cutting strips of flesh away from your bones. She is monstrous to behold; her dark hair floating behind her head as if made of serpents, her narrow eyes breathing terror down your throat. Her skin crawling in scaly parasites which leech the hope from within your soul. 

But no, in fact she’s not like that at all. She is perfectly beautiful. Her skin as soft as fresh snow, and her eyes such a deep and passionate blue that you may lose yourself within them. You lose yourself in the tumultuous looks she gives you from across the room, and you feel submerged as you did when you leapt into that glacial pool in European mountains. With every gentle caress she graces you with you feel reborn; it’s as if you’re waking up from a deep sleep you never knew you were in...


Bitch. 


January 08, 2011

The Self Always Wins

Well, man, my man. Ahm standing here, right, like, and I’m itching, really fucking itching - not like, ah’ve got crabs or anythin’ like that - it’s like with fear, ahm itching with fear all over my body. Shivers, too, my spine's shivering like a shiteing dag. Ah stuff my hands into my pockets to stop ‘em from trembling but it’s no fucking use. Ahm shook up and that’s the end of it. 

The cold is biting my neck - man, ah’ve never had a hickey from the fucking weather before tonight but the way it’s feeling ahm gonna be looking like ah’ve been necking with Dracula all night - ah take my hands out my pockets and blow on them. They’re covered in this fucking red dirt ‘n all! Tip to fucking toe and toe to fucking tip ahm covered in the shite. Why’s it red anyways? Why the fuck can’t it be brown like all the rest of the stuff? Why’s it gotta be so damn individual? 

Fucking pretentious-self-loving-individual-dirt. Man the fuck up and stop being such an arse. 

-QUEST’QUE TU LA FUCK? What the shiteing thing was that? Ah rummage in my pockets for my torch and shine it’s pitiful beam of light into the night. Ah’ll give you fucking made in England, you fucking torch, you couldn’t light a match you phallic shaped tiny bastard. 

My torch is being a right pain in the rear, the punitive amount of light it sheds hardly cutting through the waves of darkness which have descended upon me. 

-THERE IT IS AGAIN. You may be swathed in shadows, son, but you can’t escape my tiny torch light! 

A pair of wide white eyes catch the light of my torch. Ah knew it! Ah fucking well knew it! Just another fucking roo! Go back to Kanga you fucking overgrown-bouncy-dog-bastard! 

This place is full of the fucking rats, they’re creeping me out ‘n all, bouncing about like they own the place. Bollocks to ‘em, ah say. You can have this damn place. 

Ah look down at the hole ah’ve been digging for the past half-hour. That’ll do ya, I reckon. Ah swing my back-pack off my shoulders and dump it on the ground. Ah unzip it and let my red hands grope about its insides. Presently, they procure what they’ve been searching for and lift the precious prize into the open-air. 

Ah flash my torch over it as ah play with it in my other hand. Ah can’t stop touching the bloody thing, it’s like ah’m hooked on the way it feels. 

Fuck this for a game of toy-soldiers. Ah’ve gotta honour my part of the deal, right? Gotta do the moral thing here, ah reckons so. 

Then again. 

What if the other guy’s thinking like ah’m thinking right now? 

It wouldn’t be logical, now, would it? To leave this beautiful, glorious, desirous thing right here only to find ah’ve been done over by the other player - well that wouldn’t be very fair on your’s truly! 

Nah, it’s not worth it. There’s no point letting myself be screwed over: after all, maybe there’s a chance ah can keep this little treasure and get what the other squire’s holding on top, now wouldn’t that be a neat little thing. 

There’s a faint line of light on the horizon. Better make tracks sharpish, ah reckon. Ah replace my darling possession in my bag and strap it back onto my back. Ah pick my hat off the floor beside me and dust it off before putting it back on my head. 

Ah’ve only just set off when this sexy little aboriginal lady-girl walks by strutting her stuff on the desert cat-walk. Man, she’s something else, something smooth in this coarse fucking-egotistical-dirt-land. Ah whistle my sexiest whistle. 


‘Ere, love! Fancy coming back to mine for a cider and a massage?’


January 06, 2011

Forcing Myself…

So I have lost my writing ability of late. The ink has run dry and I am forcing myself to cough up words like the last of my bronchitis phlegm. With it being a new year, I shall endeavour to write more in hope it will unblock the well of inspiration. Thus far, I am still experiencing a drought.

You wrote of me
on old pub doors, chipping at the paint
with a yellowed index finger
stiff with arthritis,
toxic dandruff falling into the denim around your ankles,

You wrote of me
in hometown shades of canal brown,
and Spider park grey.

Of me, you blasphemed,
churned my name
until I was lemon curd in your mouth.

“4ever” glittered in spilt blood
across sodden bar tables,
wet with whiskey rings and strippers knickers.