Underground

Down and down they go. Down escalators and stairs. Little ants marching along brightly lit tunnels. Posters and advertisements accompany them every step of the way. They spill out onto the congested platform. Toes tapping. They glance at watches every other second. A disembodied voice shrieks over the Tannoy. The impatient throng murmurs. Everyone is late. Everyone is always late. The tracks rattle. Celestial lights shoot out from the darkness. The crowd pushes dangerously behind the thick yellow line. Mind the Gap. Mind the Gap. Mind the bloody Gap. The enclosed cave fills with a thunderous roar. A gust of chilly air hits them smack in the face. The train grinds to a screeching halt. Whoosh. The doors open. Passengers fall out on top of the waiting queues. They shove back in return. They elbow. They squeeze themselves in, filling every last available space. An orgy of intertwined contortionists. The doors close. Bang. They open again. “Please keep clear from the doors. Keep clear from the doors please. ” Closed. An over packed suitcase bursting at the zipper. The horizontal rocket shoots off into the all-consuming shadows. A chorus of newspapers rustle. The Evening Standard. The Metro. The Guardian. Books, phones, iPods are pulled out from jacket pockets. Minds disengaged from bodies that loll from side to side. The salesman next to the Sheikh. The chic yuppie back-to-back with the Sports Direct clad yob. A deranged metallic clanging cries out from beneath them. Eyes peer covertly from behind books to peruse rainbow coloured maps. If eyes meet, they are averted at cosmic speeds. That is the rule. Coughs. Sneezes. Yawns. They inhale a cocktail of distilled germs. The depleting air is suffused with the aromas of a thousand take-away lunches. Greggs. McDonald’s. Nando’s. Wok-in-a-Box. M&S and Pret A Manger for the more refined. Franchise coffee is on the breath of everyone. No one dare breathe. No one can escape the monstrous melting pot moving en masse.

Should I Tell You?

Should I tell you? Should I tell you that Jim is cheating on you? Or do you know? Are you one of these modern couples that are OK with friends with benefits? And if I told you and that were true, would you think me prudish? Wouldn't it be best to tell you anyway, just in case?

But how do I tell you? Do I send you an anonymous tip-off? Do I tell one of your girlfriends so that they can break the news to you? Or do I come out with it matter-of-factly? What is the protocol in these situations? Do I invite myself over on the grounds that I have important news you need to know? But then how can I make sure Jim isn’t going to be there? Should I ask to meet you over a coffee or a walk in the park perhaps? Or is it best to avoid public places in these circumstances? Would you think it unusual or even forward of me to ask you over to my place alone? Would you decline? And if you did say yes at what part of the conversation do I bring up Jim’s cheating? Do I need to make chit chat when you come in? Or should I look serious from the start? Is this a sofa or a kitchen-table conversation? Do I serve tea? Why am I thinking about sofas and tea?

Once we are seated do I just say that I was out last weekend and saw Jim with another woman? How much more information should I reveal? Should I mention that she was blonde and beautiful? Would you want to hear about the way they kissed, the way they felt each other up? Or would that be too much? Do I tell you that I followed them from club to club, watched as they got drunker and drunker and more and more intimate? And when they finally stumbled out onto the cold damp streets just as dawn was breaking and jumped into a cab together, do I tell you that I trailed them like some seedy P.I. until they pulled up outside a hotel? Would you think my actions disturbing, excessive? Would you ask why I didn’t intervene? Why I didn’t phone you up immediately? Why I let it wait five whole days? Would you never want to speak to me again?

Or would you move into my arms and let me comfort you? Would you let me stroke your hair and whisper in your ear that everything would be OK? Do I tell you that you deserve better than Jim? Would you realise that I am better?

Written Photograph

Wisps of chestnut hair fall lightly on his unruffled forehead. Earlobes protrude from underneath his fashionably unkempt hair. Dangling from these fleshy gewgaws is a pair of earphones; the black jelly-wire frames the lower half of his face. He doesn’t react at all to the music escaping from the beetle-like speakers in his ears. Whatever he is listening to serves less as entertainment and more as a means to drown out the café babble around him so he can focus on the paperback in his delicate hands. In fact his entire willowy body seems to arch over the fantasy novel in attempt to enter the magical fiefdom contained within. He bites his tender pink lips - in all probability still unkissed - and squints in concentration as his brown as ale eyes trail the words on the page. An impish asymmetrical grin appears on his face for a fleeting second but his expression contorts back into concentration almost instantaneously.

He is cherub faced if such a cherub were amid the whirlpool of puberty. Blotches of scarlet appear around his oily temples and chin where acne molehills seem ready to erupt at any second. A faint shadow is busily rooting itself above the upper lip, destined to grow darker and denser in the coming years.

Despite it being a few sizes too big, he wears his t-shirt with apparent honour. This black garment demonstrates his allegiance to some Scandinavian metal band or other. It also makes his skin appear paler and pastier. His gawky frame hangs loosely from his shoulders as a bathrobe does from a hanger. His legs stretch out awkwardly underneath the table, right foot now tapping away idly. A hand leaves the book and reflexively flicks away the silky strands on his brow. He shifts himself into a more comfortable position, angling his body and resting his head on his hand.

Camels & Needles

Lately I've been pondering
     camels and needles
Because lately you've been squandering
     the wealth of a king
So to cure my insecurity
     I hang out in cathedrals
That dwarf your stately villas
     and shroud you in sin

For ye have received your consolation
I sure as hell need mine
Is it too much to ask
     for a soul to console?
If the good life is yours
     can't eternity be mine?

But for all my hope in balance
I know you'll tip the scales
Typical of you to not be satisfied
With the just forever flames

And while your empire rises

Mine seems further reduced
So I'll take all I can get
Even if all I can get
   is a single beatitude

No Man's Man

This no man's man
     whose neither here nor there
This gawky man-child
     who is oh so debonair

This working-class Tommy
     in middle-class skin
This staunch moralist
     abnormally attracted to sin

This proud as punch Piscean
     who sneers the horoscope
This structured traditionalist
     who subscribes to post-modernist tropes

This liberal conservative
This corporeal ghost
This humble horn blower
This ill-mannered host

This Mediterranean-Saxon
This carpenter’s son
This jack of some trades
This master of none

This loyal adulterer
This cosmetic-less clown
This industrious idler
This verbal noun

This prude
This pervert
This pleb
This ponce
This pragmatic dreamer
This pacifist who taunts

If only a Knight could slay half this beast
Then maybe the remaining half could at last be complete

Purpose

This hunk of semi-sentient bone, blood and flesh
Suffused with guilt, drives, love, and regrets
Over a quarter century has still yet to find
A purpose to which it feels naturally inclined

Thus ensues much whining and whinging
Much to the delight of friends who are inwardly cringing
“Oh do shut up you miserable man”
Their lips seem to mouth from behind their hands

But the indulgence fiend needs his fix
It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair [he insists]
And so on goes the mantra for this pope of mope
Who with the garden-variety never seems to cope

He can never accept the phrase, “That’s life”
Or all the humdrumness of a nine-to-five
There has to be something more worthwhile
Something that will culminate in a satisfied mind

Tall are the ambitions
High are the goals to achieve
So much so that the sweet shelf seems perpetually out of reach
Which results in too much time idly spent looking at the feet

Because to look up into the sky is to realise
What good is a purpose in context with the cosmic playsite
- Where stars crash, burn and collide
- Where suns dwindle, die, and are resurrected to ten times their original size
- Where ice fountains erupt on Enceladus
- And where superior minds perhaps do slowly and surely draw their plans against us

And beyond the power of modern man’s telescopes
This whatever-it-is continues to diminish in significance and scope
The infinite canvas overwhelms our tiny boat
The waves crash down hard and swallow us whole
And with just a playful puff from the almighty gods
This speck of dust here today, could tomorrow be gone
So that all the whining and whinging of this twenty something year old
Amounts to, well ... not very much at all

Perhaps the trivial pursuit of purposefulness
Need not stem from a constant sense of incompetence

So best banish the black cat-o’-nine-tails
And let an effervescent air of positivity prevail
From here on in it’s a strict diet of good vibrations,
Karma-lite and transcendental meditation
Here begins the quest for inner peace
That will cure the heart from Western man’s disease

Still …
a purpose would be nice
and maybe, just maybe,
a rich man’s life

The Jar marked Mercy

The jar marked Mercy is empty
It sits conspicuously on her shelf
Despite all the bric-a-brac and crockery
And the mugs stained with coffee
His eyes don’t take in much else

There still is Grace aplenty
And half a decanter of Doubt
The demijohn of Muse
She’s yet to consume
As her imagination has never run out

A carafe of Lust she keeps by the fire
Deep scarlet, fruity and smooth
Every evening she pours
A glass, or four
To help get them both in the mood

But it’s the empty jar of Mercy that concerns him
As from out the cupboard a gift wrapped in ribbon she pulls
It’s their anniversary today
And somehow he now needs to explain
His bottle of Forget was full

A litte tête-à-tête

There’s something tearing away at the back of my mind, I can hear the whispers. You’re a failure, they say. You’re wasting life. Tug my hair as I might, twist and turn at night, I can’t let go of the thought, What if they’re right? Minutes ticking, time for rest diminishing. I flee the bed chambers to enter the examination room; a little man to man, a little tête-à-tête. Let’s examine the face: the hollow circles around the eyes, the gray blue hue that has captured the imagination of many a fair admirer, but now not so bright, now a little cold, stars in the eyes have died. There the lips that can break into that smile, the smile that can melt hearts and change minds. Better than any theatre prop or beautician’s talent, when that smile breaks out the audience is drawn into the fiction of happy endings or beginnings or whatever else it is that they imagine. For the words never really leave the mouth, but somehow that smile seems to leave no one in doubt. That is the man, the babble rises, who is content beyond his heart’s desire, yet never proud, always good natured. But it was little more than white lies to clothe himself from prying eyes. Note the tilt of the head, the cheeks slightly sallow, the teeth once so white now a little yellow due to increase in caffeine that has become borderline addiction, but to withdraw is to fall foul of symptoms that knock the inner forehead without invitation. The hair is still fine, healthy and full despite all the tugging and sharp painful pulls that are administered to try awakening the senses from defeatist realist adherence. Signs of acne still appear from day to day, yet they promised this would stop back around 2008 when teenhood doors closed and the twenties arrived in a flurry of more responsibilities and a stronger dose of life. That’s not to say that life hasn’t been grand, there are traces in this face of a rare beautiful love, the touch of gentle woman’s hand that has cared for this face and given more to it than all of those petty thwarted plans. But he feels he has let her down once too many, no longer quite sure he deserves to be around. You can read all this in the forehead’s lines and that cheerless smile he only reveals during these nocturnal examination times. So what is there left to say of this well-familiar face that it has not already heard a thousand times before? Not much really, you might as well give up trying to soothe and calm that mind. Think of it as the aspiring artist within to self-torment inclined. So scrub that face hard and scrub it clean, rest that head on the pillow that nurtured all those adolescent dreams, a few deep breaths (and a couple of sighs), then no more whispers, not at least until the following night.

Just a thought

You say I have no faith
But then you have no reason
So I guess, in a way
We are both rather even

Tardy Town {a glimpse}

The mysterious circumstances pertaining to the town christened Tardy, and all that followed.

At precisely 3 o’clock in the dead of a chilly Thursday night in December, the St. Sanctus church bell sounded across the little town of Tardy. Precisely seven people in the town were still awake that night and thus were the few who heard the bell’s clangourous hollow din reverberating from its mount in the Church tower.

Raymond Rechid was one of the seven not yet claimed by the realm of sleep, and truth be told Raymond had no choice but to hear the bell’s clamour, as he was Tardy town’s staunch bell-ringer.

While the mass of Tardy town’s inhabitants were tucked soundly in bed, Raymond would nightly make his way to the Church - a short two streets walk from his unintended bachelor abode - turn the bulky rusting key in the old wooden Church tower door, and there he would carry-out his appointed duty of the ringing of the bell. As St. Sanctus’ sole subservient, Raymond was also appointed to be dreary daily altar server, lonesome aisle sweeper, makeshift pallbearer and unavoidable-if-undesired gravedigger.

In comparison to these humdrum chores, he simply relished ringing the town bell; the thud of the clapper against the bell’s inner rim, the pouring of sound all around him filling the tower to its brim, the quivering sensation eddying down the bell’s rope through his hands.

He knew the bell so intimately that with just the slightest flick of the wrist he could direct the clapper to the bell’s sweetest spots, allowing for differing degrees in the sound’s tonality and texture to resonate and reverberate across the town. For those two or three minutes each night Raymond Rechid ceased to be a sad thirty-six year old bachelor whose only purpose in life was to perform St. Sanctus church’s dirty work. He transformed into a conjurer of sound; a straight-backed and not so socially shunned kindred spirit of Quasimodo.

Fr. Dione, the parish priest, grimaced at the tolling of the bell. Perched like an old balding vulture at the end of his bed, Fr. Dione’s reason for being awake at such an ungodly hour was not out of any pious religious devotion. Quite simply it was Fr. Dione who paid Raymond Rechid’s weekly wages out of the St. Sanctus’ daily monetary gatherings. And quite simply, if Raymond was to miss any one of his never-ending appointed church duties, Fr. Dione would, with a feeling of relief befitting any miserly old man, refuse to pay Raymond his entitled sum; a sum that even an ordinary Tardy town child would scoff at.

Somewhat grudgingly, Fr. Dione picked up his thumb-sized graphite pencil from his bedside table and crossed the Thursday night box off his scrutinisingly extensive Rechid’s weekly performance checklist. Pulling back the stiff as cardboard bed sheets, he crawled underneath for some well needed shuteye.

Partly, I Guess

If:

The garden withers and clockwork stops
Hanging ceiling lamps begin to drop
Stairs collapse, hinges rust
Wooden doors are shredded to dust
Wallpaper hangs in moldy lumps
Filth and grime gathers in clumps
The kitchen walls blacken with smouldering smoke
Floorboards and carpets sluggishly soak
Water flows though I close the tap
The drainpipes moan as they burst and crack
Ceramic tiles smash and shatter
Bed sheets are ripped and torn to tatters
My hallway mirror reflection is permanently maimed
The antique coffee table goes up in flames
Fruit on the mantelpiece begins to rot
Stench rises from waste bins forgot

If brick by boring brick it all came down
Would I be upset?
Partly, I guess

But pick, and pry, and poke, and snide, and impose, and intrude, and snub, and snoop, and judge, and gut my little accumulated creative wealth
Then watch me collapse into myself

Glycerine

Look at the glycerine, see it sparkle and shimmer
The line on the horizon slowly dissipating, getting thinner
A thousand shades of white and gray now silver
Contain the leaking blue that floods through the vessel
The hubris of brightness piercing the senses
Tearing down worn-out analogue fences
In the infinite sphere, polystyrene perfection
Not a taint or a blemish to distinguish complexion
Filth and ruin run through veins beneath exo-skeleton
Clog the pipe work to infect communal perception
Above and surrounding the fluid serene
The mindless bliss of electric dreams
Slice the tubing, let solution waste
Wait for the whir and whine of panicked mechanical pain
And while this new corporeal may not rot
The ghost in its machine can only be forgot

Vicarious

Hey look it’s Jim, Jimmy, Jim-bo
How ya doin!? Want a smoke?
Light up, come on, be a good boy now
Beautiful, get us two Bourbons with coke!
Chlink chlink, knock that down JimJim,
Feels good don’t it?
Just you n’ me tonight like ol’ times
Man you lookin’ good Jim!
Me? Nah, look at this here gut
Beautiful, two more won’t ya
So what you been up to?
Really? You don’t say?
Seems like you’ve become a regular romantic
A silver tongued, sheethopping, freewheelin’ romantic
Good on ya, good on ya
Lucky ess oh bee
Bet you wouldn’t wanna trade with me?
Ah nah, cahn’t complain, not really
Jane? She’s been better to be honest
She once glowed, now she leaves perpetual shadows behind her
There’s that something missing
Every mornin’, ya know?
Dark circles beneath those eyes
Yeah, yeah, I know, I know
And I do Jim, I really do
And I know she does too,
Well you know, deep down I do
It’s not easy, but hey let’s not dampen spirits
Two more, chlink chlink
So tell me ‘bout life away?
How did you do it day to day?
You didn’t get bored?
Man, one day I’ve gotta go,
Haha, I know, I know
But better late than never as the suburban say
And don’t it get lonely?
Yeah, yeah
Well bless yer honesty
A day in the life, a day in the life
Believe me, that’s all it would take to make you run away
Drink drink Jimbo
It may not be festive season
But tonight let’s make merry
Beautiful … thanks
When we were young Jim you were my idol man
Funny how things don’t change
You’re still the silvertongued blue eyed boy you used to be
An idol for all o’us stuck on Humdrum Street
You took the road less rambled
The course less crossed
The path less pa.. pa … ahh fuck it
Hhhhhhhhhhhh
Riddle me this Jimbo!
Whatya call a blonde standing on her …
Hey! Hey! Watch it mate!
You just gone an’ spilled half my friend’s bourbon
Nah nah, it ain’t alright Jim,
Hey I’m talkin to you son
Bbbllllll
Aahhhhh ‘k Jim, aaahhh’ k
Byewtifull, yeah yeah two, sil vu play
Hhhhhhhh
Say say? You ain’t with anyone are ya?
My mate Jim here, he be the best there is
Hey come back, come back,
Jim, I'm sorry, I was jus’ tryin’,
How’d d’ya do it Jim?
How’d dy’a do it?
I’ve been tryin’ for fourteen years
Fourteen drawn out, drab, long long years
Still haven’t managed
And ya know what depresses me Jim?
What really jolts my innards into pitiful gloom?
It’s not that I wouldn’t out of some decisive piety
It’s that I couldn’t.
I couldn’t even if it was laid out pretty on a plate and all I had to do was dig in
The damn thing would somehow grow legs and run the hell off
Got no talent for it you see
Got no God-given talent
Hhhhhhhhhuhuh
Guess it wasn’t meant for me,
But it was the life for you JimJim
It was, the life, for you
Nah, nah, you just say that Jim
Cos you don’t know what it's like on the other side
Got no idea, too busy sowing your wild oats you’ve been
Ahhh Jim, JimJim,
Two mowr, twoooo, one-ah two-ah
You’re a good guy Jim,
You’re a good good guy
Goooooood
I-I, I’m hungry
Le’s goww get some foowd yeah?
Tell me more 'bout away
Just you n’ me Jim, like ol’ times

Threaten me with violence ...

Point a gun at my head and I'll dance for you
My feet will flex, my body twist
I'll take to the air
Watch Fred Astaire blush

Hold a knife to my throat and I'll sing for you
My voice will tower and soar
The crowds will gather, open jaws
They'll be asking for autographs later

Threaten me with violence and I'll find the cure for cancer
Innovate renewable energy technologies
Travel through wormholes
The world will never be the same again

Leave me alone, let me be and I will waste away
A nothing, a drifting nobody
Work, home, sleep, play, work
Home, sleep, play, work, home, sleep ...

gods and animals

God does not speak through men
he speaks through the pasty mud
caked on his naked body
the crevice of cheek and brow
life will be sustained mellifluously
by ghosts visiting from the past
to haunt.

he woke up to see two of them;
One that kills and One that loves
his paws ached and as he gently
moved each ligament he felt
the dry mud crack on his skin
he smeared the mud on his forehead
and sighed.

the One that kills, oblivious
the One that loves shed a tear
the truth came swiftly to him
like the merman messenger
rushing to the merman king
to warn of titans approaching
to drink.

wash away the days of mud
and the One that kills comes alive
feels the urge to take on a lover
and bed her in sheepish disguise
smear on pasty mud; more, more
so the One that loves felicitates
all night.

waves of fair wispy hair
come to him from a lifetime
before the mud smeared on body
before the Ones stood on constant watch
a hand, a finger, a nail, a tip
of something somewhen long ago
now mad.

God does not speak through animals
he speaks through the pasty mud
ripping bodies alive again
muscles expand and fall again
life will fade, death erase, the mind becomes
pregnant.

Désolé

I got sick of the acting, the effort of imitating an already fake scenario. Then one night I tried to be spontaneous. We got in back home after a rather tiresome leaving do of one her work colleagues. I had been somewhat desolate all evening, sat at my corner of the table in the restaurant, sipping my one glass of wine slowly, listening idly to the babble surrounding me. Every so often honing in on particular pockets of gossip and blather that were garnering interest. I just wasn’t in the mood to drink myself stupid. There was one instance where she turned round to look at me. Her eyes locked with mine, and I felt the coolness of their ice-blue hue flood my mind and awaken me. She smiled an understanding smile that seemed to say, “I know, me neither”, and rubbed her hand gently on mine. I sensed some long forgotten something take flight from the depths of my soul, all the way up my spine trying to reach the surface. Maybe there was more to us than I first thought. I kissed her hand softly and she turned back to the high spirited cackle of her friends. After that though our understanding dissolved slowly slowly with every freshly topped up glass of wine she drank.

By the time we got home she had quietened down again, seemingly in a state of subdued euphoria. I sensed the slight heaviness of her body as she treaded up the stairs, making our way to the bedroom. In silence she undressed, her back towards me while I sat on the bed taking off my shoes. Looking up I took in the warm amber lamplight highlighting the curvature of her back, the shadows accentuating her hips and thighs. I could see the strap markings pressed in her skin as she unfastened her bra. I had seen her body countless times, and yet I had never taken it in. There was a sudden urge within me, a desire to re-capture that tiny instance in the restaurant. For a few fleeting seconds we had understood each other. I had caught a glimpse of how great we could be together. Desperately I pulled her round towards me and stood up. This time we were going to do this however it was meant to be done. I ran my hands through her hair. Smiling lazily, she sat down on the bed. I knelt down in front of her, and pulled her gently towards me to kiss her. I wanted to experience her lips for the first time. I kissed her deeply, with all the passion I could muster, my mind trying to let go and lose itself in a wave of ecstasy, but all I could taste was the synthetic matt paste of her lipstick. She slipped her tongue in my mouth, the dry bitter taste of red wine was still strong in her mouth. Determined to make this work I carried on regardless, stroking her hair, kissing her cheek tasting the powdery make up foundation, I ran my hands down her back, kissing her neck, tasting the sickly alcoholic perfume lingering there. More and more desperate, I clung on to the hope of the real, cupping her breasts, tenderly kissing her shoulders and arms, my nose flooded with the pungent odour of her deodorant. My fingers dug deep in her hips and my eyes welled up with tears and all the forced fervour rapidly receded from the tips of my fingers and the back of my neck back down deep somewhere in my core. Kneeling with my head drooped between her legs, my arms hung loosely, I breathed in deeply, trying to stop my eyes from flooding.

An Episode on a Hotel Rooftop

{Author's note: I am not responsible for the actions and remarks of the characters in this piece. Nor am I responsible for events leading up to this episode on this particular hotel rooftop. Like you my dear reader, whoever you may be, I am clueless as to what is happening here. If you would happen to possess any information which may be crucial in helping me understand these goings-on, kindly communicate it in the comments section underneath. Kind regards.}

"Sit down," she said abruptly, her voice tinged in suppressed frustration. She took in a deep breath, and the icy wind rushed through her parted lips as if seeking shelter from the night, draining the little colour left in her cheeks. She appeared ice sculpture-esque, if not for the fact that her fingers spasmed every time she tried resisting her instinctive shivers. In an airy whisper she pleaded, "Please?" He saw the resolution in her eyes and reluctantly sat down, legs dangling over the hotel building. Looking down he saw the vertical lane of protruding hotel room balconies, warm yellow light pouring out of some. Each of these temporary abodes enclosed a medley of lives. A few individuals with heads settled on pillows knowingly or unknowingly explored the realm of the sub-conscious, while others feasted on decadent cocktails and vintage wines, the best the hotel had to offer. Elsewhere, razor blades were at the ready near small snowy heaps, and discarded designer fashion label lingerie lay at the foot of king-sized beds where pay-per-hour prostitutes were attending to wealthy senior businessmen, helping them relieve the stress of their inherited corporate empires.

Sitting on top of this microcosmic monument of human life, he took it all in. The suit he was wearing felt restricting. He impulsively pulled his shirt out of his trousers, and unbuttoned it at the top. Not much better, but better nonetheless.

She gazed at him momentarily, understanding what he was going through, yet simultaneously conscious that her time was almost up; soon dawn would come. She needed to get this done with now, there was no 'then' anymore. She took off her high heels, lifted the hem of her gown in order to bend her knees, and cautiously sat next to him. Her toes curled with the exhilaration of dangling her feet over such an abysmal drop. She had to catch her breath. She could feel that irrational voice inside enticing her to fulfil curiosity and experience the fall. Not tonight though, maybe there will be some other time, in another lifetime perhaps.

"Look, about tonight," she began deliberately, "it is important that you know I was only trying to help."

"Some help you've been," he retorted.

She knew he was angry with her but was still taken aback by the harshness in his voice. "That's unfair. You were the one who begged and begged me to show you what I knew. I warned you, once I showed you there was no turning back. You can't unknow knowledge like that."

"But you cheated me. You made me believe it was something real, something ..," he struggled to find the words for what he now understood and knew.

"Well it is real," she cut in quickly, seeing him stuck. Time was ticking. "Just maybe not what you would've normally defined as real," she let that seep in. "Listen, you also need to know this. I had explained to you that I was instructed to share my knowledge with one person, only one person, a person the Others and myself agreed upon, someone we believed would be ready." She really wished she could get away with not mentioning the next part, but that would just make his situation worse. "This is extremely hard for me to explain to you, but it is vital that you know."

"Know what?"

"Well that ... that you were not the intended one. The Others haven't got a clue that I ignored all prior deliberation and agreements."

"What?" he was aghast. The burden he would now have to endure the duration of his life could have been prevented if not for a sudden whim? "Then why the hell did you choose me? Christ, I know I begged, but if you are who you say you are, then surely you would have known I was not ready for this. I can't deal with this."

"It was something you said to me that made me change my mind." This, she was hoping, would convince him that her decision hadn't been mindless. "Remember that first night we met at The Apache? We went out for a cigarette and talked about that girl from your office, the one who hung herself because of the way this city is changing, the way people are being treated. You had no sympathy for her, you were angry with what she had done.” She realised he was beginning to comprehend where she was going with this; she continued determinedly, “I asked you how do you know you wouldn’t bail on life if it gave you a wrong hand. You answered ...”

“... I just do,” he finished her sentence off for her. He had said that. He had been so convinced at the time; a mere 5 months ago. How life had changed since then.

“I’m sorry,” she picked up, and followed with a hollow laugh, “I am gonna be in so much trouble when the Others find out. You have no idea.” She would probably be excommunicated, in exile for the rest of her ... well not life, existence? “Somehow I think this is going to work out, you are going to figure this out.” She put her hand on top of his and squeezed it gently, he felt calm. For a while they sat looking out over the city, letting the city lights and sounds take over their minds. Even at this hour cabs were still pulling up to the hotel entrance, the concierge busy welcoming guests and calling porters to take care of any luggage. The odd wave of music would come floating by; the murky bass of nearby underground electronica clubs, improvised jazz phrasings from nocturnal city buskers, and the smutty chanting of intoxicated youths, all merged with car horns and police sirens.

A lustful red gleam could now be seen dead ahead, its molten fringe softly drinking up the dark velvet in the sky. “Lana shall we go back down now?” his eyes were still locked on the metamorphosing skyline. She didn’t answer. “Lana?” But there was no one there. She was gone and he knew intuitively that he would never see her again. He was now in this alone. He took a final glance down the side of the hotel – tempting - got up and walked across the rooftop to the fire exit he had forced open earlier, pulling the door shut behind him.

Sweets: putting psychosis to pseudo paper

dreaming, dreaming, extended hands reaching out from underneath carpets, from sideboards and from behind picture paintings on the wall ... whetted nails try to claw flesh, extricate crimson blood, to trickle down flesh onto nail, shining jewels, strawberry fountains flood floors, deliciously inviting.

let go and float down streams of maroon fluid, through the door, down the stairs, swept past waving neighbours calling hazily after you, out onto the street where liquids are not welcome, down the gutter they go, smaller and tinier you get, through the rusty bars to neverwhere.

splash, water sprays upwards, heaved upwards through the hole of the drop, rich colours await; sparkling blues, emerald greens, opal oranges, stripy watermelons and fuzzy coconuts. exotic aromas and worldly essences fill your nostrils, and on and on you float dazzled by your sumptuous surroundings, tummy grumble, it all looks so scrumptious you could eat, bite the marshmallowy ceiling, the candy floss lanes, reach for clouds, touch and pull, sticky sweet vines swiftly creep over your hands, over your arms, across your chest, let go, let go, let go, softly consumed by synthetic ingredients and deeper and deeper you go.

dark now, blinded now, trapped in cotton walled prison, no room to move, no room to breathe, push frantically, quick quick, air will not enter those lungs, colour fills your eyes, jolts of red, bursting violets, gasp gasp.

The Office Piece (part 1)

The calendar on my desk glares at me. As it’s the first Monday of the month, I turn over the page to find a new inspirational message that is somehow meant to coerce me into believing that my contribution in this office’s affairs has some sort of cosmic purpose that benefits society. This month I am greeted with the phrase ‘Some people dream of success... while others wake up and work hard at it’. Above this truly sententious line is a picture of a man in profile, walking up a set of stairs. At the foot of the stairs, just a few paces back, is his bed, the sheets pulled back, suggesting that he has only just woken up and is not wasting any time getting on his way to success. This man is suited, carrying a sleek briefcase, a contented smile on his face. This man has a purpose, he is fulfilling his purpose.

Putting aside the fact that this ponce conveniently has the stairs-to-success right next to his bed for a moment, why couldn’t he even be bothered to make his bed before he set off for work? Surely lack of tidiness is detrimental to achieving any level of success. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, I’m sure I remember some line from last year’s calendar stating something along the lines of ‘A tidy desk is a recipe for success’. Of course it’s ok for them to be self-contradictory. See, if I was in the board room with the idiots behind this concoction, I would at least have had the decency to ensure there be some managerial type figure in the picture; an even better suited model standing by the bed, pointing a gun at the twat walking up the stairs. And not some itty bitty hand gun either. A big fuck off shot gun, pointed straight at his head. Oh motivation will be abundant, overflowing perhaps. And above all it will add a touch of honesty to this farce. My eyes shift focus and now it’s the small regimental numbered squares I see. These little numbered boxes believe they can contain the full proceedings of any given day in my life. Well, most days they probably can.

I’ve now been in the office for little over 13 minutes, and I can already feel the little life I woke up with being sucked out of my body. Its as if as soon as I come in, the office stabs a tube into the back of my neck and starts extracting my vitality to power the ever fluorescent angelic white light bulbs above my head. I swear the more drained I feel, the brighter those lights get. Each and every employee who walks through that door, a natural resource to sustain the ravenous beast that is this office. I need my fuel.

The coffee’s hot, but it tastes like shit. This brown, watery, soup. Gets me thinking about the poor fucker who put his heart and soul into producing the sorry batch of beans that are now diluted in my eco-friendly plastic cup. Some third world farmer toiling away in the sweltering heat, the lurid sun beating down on his face while he licks his lips, tasting the salty sweat dripping down his face. Little water, only sun ... no water ... day after bloody day ... unbearable heat ... a lifetime. A lifetime chucked into a piece of shit machine that spits out this ... this steaming misery. Heart and soul indeed.

But I sip this mess, this heart and soul in a cup, while the rest of the office-folk stumble in. We all give each other a smile and nod, the more enthusiastic employee (i.e. not been working in this building as long as the rest of us) will even let out a too-early-for-the-vocal-chords croaky moan, which one can only assume is meant to translate into “Good morning”. I don’t know. He could be saying anything; “Like the tie!”, “Do you need anything from the supply store?”, “I’ve just scratched your car ... the car you’ve spent two whole years of your life moping around this office, saving up for”. The only reaction he is going to get out of me is the nodsmile that fulfils my part in the bullshit production of Mornings at the Office.

One day I think I’ll upset the routine. I’ll put a schism in the mechanism ... so to speak.

“gwrdmrrrng”, he will say.
“Excuse me?”, I shall say, pleasantly I might add.
“ahem ... sorry. Good morning!”, he shall say, more assertively.
“Oh, I see”, I will respond, without reciprocating the greeting.

Slightly confused he will start to shuffle towards his desk. One ... two ...

“Excuse me?”, I’ll call after him.
“Yes?”, he will answer.
“Why is it you presume I would be at all receptive to your poor attempt of unnecessary early morning communication ... you corporate buffoon.”

Alas today, like most days, I can’t be bothered to exert the energy such a scenario would require. I continue to stare at my calendar, counting down the months, the weeks, the days, hours, minutes, seconds ... My coffee is cold now. It still tastes like shit.

Morning Rain (part 1)

She woke up to the sound of raindrops pitter-pattering on her bedroom window above her pillow. Opening her eyes she wrapped her quilt tight around her shoulders and knelt on the bed. Her elbows felt the cold dew on the window sill, and drawing the curtains slightly apart she peered outside. The window pane was sprinkled with glass-like beads, each one descending sluggishly, offering a unique glimpse of the world outside before being hastily replaced by a freshly splattered droplet. Unlike most children her age, Phoebe loved rain.

The gray sky glowed almost fluorescently, and looking downwards Phoebe took in Vallance Street with an expression of awe. The usually dull looking houses had been washed, and their red brick glistened afresh; the green of the front gardens had now darkened; the soil could finally breathe again and fill the street with its earthy fragrance. Phoebe noticed Ms. Lavinia of number 7 across the road. She was standing behind her front door which was slightly ajar, trying to work out which was the safest route to her car in order to not get terribly soaked. Old Mr. and Mrs. Spencer of number 3 walked slowly down their porch to their car shielded by a big black umbrella. Mr. Spencer waited patiently until his wife got safely into the passenger seat. Closing the door shut he hopped rather wistfully to the other side, waited for the car to warm up, and off they went. Phoebe’s eyes followed them until they turned round the bend at the end of the street.

She suddenly heard the front door unlock downstairs and looking down into her front garden she saw her father making his way to the car. Pulling the curtains slightly more together so as not to be seen, Phoebe watched curiously. Father walked out to the middle of the garden and stood still in the rain for a few minutes, only moving to turn up the collar of his long black coat. He didn’t seem to mind getting wet much. Turning to the car, Father looked straight up at his daughter’s window, smiled knowingly and winked. Then off he went to work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain had quietened down and Phoebe felt that this would be a good excuse to get outside the house and go for a walk. She put on her mack and wellies, and headed to the door. Should I let Mother know? Looking up the staircase she considered this for a moment, but decided on the contrary. Best leave Mother rest.

The air outside felt fresh and cool, and everything was so still and silent. Closing the gate behind her she made her way to the park, jumping from puddle to puddle as if they were the only platforms that could save her from falling down into an imaginary abyss. She reached the maple tree rooted in no. 24’s front garden. It stretched out over the pavement providing a momentary shelter. Phoebe looked up into its twisted branches and felt the lingering morning raindrops drip on her face. She looked over the gate to make sure Mr. Grog wasn’t anywhere to be seen, then jumped gingerly up onto his front wall and pulled one of the branches close to her to cut off a few of its blazing amber leaves. The rain had made the leaves sparkle just as though they were precious jewels, and Phoebe felt a sudden flash of guilt. Was she taking more from Mr. Grog than just a bunch of leaves?

She heard a raspy “Miaooowww!” in the branches above her, and then saw a set of dark blue accusatory eyes. A black cat appeard from the thickness of the branches and jumped down nearer to her. “Miaaooww!” it repeated, as if to clarify that it was indeed addressing Phoebe. “What?” she retorted. The black cat continued to stare at her and at the glistening leaves in her hand. “Well even if you wanted to, there’s nothing you can do about it”, said Phoebe matter-of-factly. However despite her apparent self-assurance Phoebe had to admit that the cat had the upper hand in this scenario. After all this seemed to be the cat’s tree, and for all Phoebe knew the black cat could well infact do something about it. Feeling slightly uncomfortable Phoebe jumped down off the wall and continued her walk. She turned to utter a meek “Sorry ...”, but the black cat had already climbed back up to its higher position in the tree, and all Phoebe could see of it was its skinny black tail disappearing into the dense branches.