Accidental

it could happen   to anyone   at any time   but it should never   have happened here   not to me   and not to you   no, not to us   alone amongst smiling enemies   we’ll come to ourselves   on the rebound   praise the love sacrificial    eat our prayer books   and blot our jotters   with rapacious jealousy   but we’ll see it out    from the beginning   to the very end   all things being square   and on the level    in that moment    we’ll see the truth    that what should happen   will eventually happen   just like I said it could   just like you knew it would

Vigil

Did your words come unbidden, or did you squeeze them from your heart? Did they fall as distant echoes, or were their edges sharp? Do they haunt you even now as you lay there in the dark? Or is it the words you did not say that bit and left their mark? Did you encounter something wicked when you were still quite young? Has it robbed you of your memories and nullified your tongue?

Is it true you fan the ashes to keep those memories alight? Do they help to keep you warm - or wide awake at night? Do they suffocate your mind with a blanket of remorse? Does your every thought betray you – each one a Trojan horse? Was it the same for you last night; and the same the night before? Why do you seek out darkness when it’s darkness you abhor? Did you walk a lonely street perfectly alone; and were you touched by shadows as you made your way home?

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The Other Foot

“I hate liars!” she pronounced, with the emphasis on hate, and I knew in my deepest recess that I had been deceived. I may not be the cleverest of cookies, but I know when I’m having smoke blown up my arse.

“Everybody lies,” I replied evenly, “it’s human nature.”

“Not me – I never lie,” she bristled, now staring fixedly at the TV screen. 

My insides churned; the chords of attraction were striking a dissonant note. My heart was beating out a tattoo against my ribs. The body has its own messenger service – the body knows instinctively. I watched her as she feigned abstract disinterest. Everything I had ever observed about lying was on display. I would know because I had been one of the biggest liars on earth. I knew then that she probably prided herself internally on her ability to pull the wool, but she really was a rank amateur.

I was embarrassed for her. She’d come home with her t-shirt on inside out. She claimed that she must have gone out that way; a likely story. She’d been acting pretty cagey and pulling a lot of late shifts down at the pub. My friends were dropping hints and I recognised the signs. I invented most of the blinds that she was pulling now. I was a past master in the art of deception, but when it happened to me and the shoe was on the other foot - I felt both dirty and betrayed. Ironic you might say - betrayal previously being my stock and trade. The irony was layered because this time I had played it straight - right down the line. I did not deserve this shite - I had been as good as gold this time.

Then I got to thinking about how my previous partners must have felt while I was whoring it around. All the lies I had to tell and the people I let down. I figured this was karma and I deserved all I got. That said, I just couldn’t swallow my pride; so I showed the bitch the door. I had been deceived and I had been betrayed - I felt angry and abused, but within a week I’d swallowed hard and gone crawling back for more.

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Apples

after forty days     and forty nights    I got paroled     on my doctor’s advice      adam was waiting for me      eve was too     we scoffed our forbidden apples with relish      our moment of enlightenment    reeked of corruption      I learned to laugh    I learned to cry      I learned to live for the moment without inhibition

there were many things we never saw      but the moonstone hung in the soft blue       and we saw her face for sure      she was a howling moon      but your friends don’t care how you get your pleasure    they’re just glad you do     sometimes people make us human again       sometimes they just get in the way       

hunters and collectors   try to pin you down   pronounce you weirdo    loner   misanthrope     because people fear difference       and they let it be known       without grace or subtlety      they got me close range      point blank      tagged and bagged      I don’t belong and I never did      that’s something for a poor boy to weigh up      as he raids another orchard

I don’t like to romanticise my sickness     but all the great ones passed this way      reconciled to the difference machine       drunk on rotten apples     brave enough to dream     I dreamed I was dreaming and couldn’t wake up      now would be the time      to give myself a shake       before the wrong side of the bed conspires against me    

they tell me that there is nothing to lose  in the abandonment of self      but no man can give himself away     I heard that in a song      the red haired girl from babylon said I had no soul    I asked her    

what is a soul?

something you don’t have    she replied

poor boy had no dough     he paid his debts with one weighed ounce of solid soul       it was a good trade     or so it seemed      I don’t recall ever missing      something I’ve never seen

I often luxuriate in bouts of dread introspection     eve says I’m bound by my imagination    or lack of     she says if I don’t change I’ll spend my life wallowing in self pity      until the judas goat guns me down      but I’m too old to change       I’m set fast in a pattern      that descends to the abattoir 

 

 

Scarred

He always wore long sleeves, even in the hot weather. Those who noticed speculated that he might be a junkie. The truth was that he was embarrassed by his arms – the pale inner flesh was criss-crossed with scars. He felt that these betrayed his weakness that they showed him up as a self indulgent hysteric. They were made many years before, but were as livid as they ever were – great white gashes that ran across and down his arms like highways.

His self inflicted scars were constant reminders of the boy that he once was – full of sadness and self loathing. Some were punishment scars; others were genuine attempts to end his life. He often felt that his old arms no longer fitted the man he had become – the defect cicatrices were the property of a young man, a young man who had in fact died a long time ago.

He had often tried to forget his youthful manic slashings. His arms would not let him. He had tried to tell himself that the scars were in fact the signs of struggle – a struggle he had won. Had he not prevailed over adversity? Was he not still alive and kicking? It was true. Like the gnarled old bark of an ancient tree his scars were a sign of triumph, but how do you convey that to others? He kept his sleeves rolled down – dreading the looks he received if ever his naked arms were exposed.

Making love with a new partner was a particular minefield. They invariably asked him about the scars – then would begin a lengthy discussion and an inevitable distance – his sanity suspect from there on in. But there was one girl who asked no questions. She kissed his scars and held him close for the longest time. At first he was mortified, but the gesture was so pure it melted his heart. No words were ever spoken of his disfiguring wounds. He felt like the man he wanted to be – she gave him that. Yes, she gave him that and it was precious.

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