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
I’ve buried you.
In the sands which washed us,
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.
Rest in my shaking hands.
These hands that cannot draw.
April 02, 2011
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.
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
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
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
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.
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
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
March 24, 2011
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 10, 2011
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
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
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
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.
-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.
-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
-mmm mmm mmmm mm
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.
Crash into old lady leaving her room
Carry on, she’ll be fine. probably.
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.
-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
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...
January 08, 2011
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.
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?’