Pages

29 April 2015

Thief

Thief

I wasn’t fazed when she shied away from my touch. I expected that, top bird like her. She didn’t just jump into a situation like that – didn’t give her affections away to just anybody. Especially the likes of me. I was an imposter and I think we both knew that, but I guess I fulfilled some need in her. I made her smile and I wasn’t demanding her life. I just wanted a little of her time. 

Boys fall in love with girls like her and they never forget them. They carry their memory in some sacred place within. I could have loved her and perhaps I should have loved her. Summers fade and lilies fester, but nothing lingers like words left unspoken.
.

15 April 2015

Monster

Bela
I’m sick of this tired old face. I want a new one – like my old one – like the one I wore when I was young. I see a hundred faces on any given day and every face conceals a story. What kind of story does my face conceal? At night I’m lost in a sea of faces that clamour for my attention – my dreams are full of faces; they crowd me to blame and shame me.

The girl at the back has a question – an unkind and supercilious question. Her query originates in the psychotic regions of a bleached mind and sounds an echo in memory – something about my missing soul.

“What kind of monster are you?”

I suspect it’s more of a rhetorical device than a question, so I ignore it. But later I get to thinking... What kind of monster am I? I’m a blind monster or I would have seen her coming. I’m a deaf monster, or I would have heard her lies. I’m a mute monster – because I said nothing. I’m a numb monster because I feel even less.

She was one gift horse I should have given the full dental. Those sceptic teeth made ribbons of ambition. I have little time for those awkward manoeuvres imposed by some milquetoast Mussolini. I have an agenda sublime to accommodate; others follow the mandate of their own hearts. I take solace in the fact that I may be a monster with no soul, but I’m closer to heaven than some.
.

6 March 2015

Nettles

rubberdocsbw042
It’s the stony cold silence
The morning after
A beating
That fragile feeling
Softly trembling
The queerness in the gut
When the ebbing throb reveals
The broken incestual jaw
Of the sacrificial lamb
In a garden untended
And filled with nettles
It’s a mouthful of blood
And a handful of hair
Nothing to write home about
It’s not as if you care
.

5 March 2015

Fish n Chips

Fish_n_Chips_01

Oh Lord, lead us not into temptation, but deliver us some cheap thrills. This one looks game for a laugh; she’s all fur coat and no knickers, not that I hold that against her. I know her slightly - just enough to know I ought to maintain a little distance. She’s comely all the same and the mere idea of her gives me a hard on; the way that casual acquaintance does when you’re on a sexual high and possess little moral fibre. I’ve known a few mongrels in my time, but this one takes the biscuit and she takes it greedy like.

I don’t mean to make it seem that I lack respect, but I recognise the limitations of this faux romance. Still the pretence of courtship is all part of the ritual – though I doubt that she even remembers my name. We’ll do the deed alfresco – doggy style – with no inhibition or manners. We’ll grab some fish and chips after and converse inanely for the first and last time.
.

27 February 2015

Ashcan

Ashcan
least said, soonest mended
so I dummy up nice
and batten down tight
stick it in the shade
and avert my eyes
from the unclean thing
that foul device
it’s just old news
bitter rebukes remembered
with a bullseye to the heart
I turn once more
down a path well trodden
but put the stoppers on
I don’t remember
or choose not to
those things that drag me down
who rakes for coals
in an ashcan full of yesterdays?

24 February 2015

Promethean

flames
what kind of monster am I?
I’m the man fortune made me
only as good as circumstances allow
and only as bad as I have to be
this heat and light are stolen
they obscure a multitude of sins
it’s an old cliché tailored to fit
and worn with a swagger
because I’m stepping tall
when I roll out my thing
this candle burns exceedingly bright
is neither hidden under a bushel
or extinguished in the night
.

22 February 2015

Porcelain

Porcelain-Doll
At the eleventh hour she knew she could not fly, her mother had clipped her wings to minimise risk and circumvent adventure. Her limitations I ascribed to a troubled childhood, she was fragile, more doll than woman. Her porcelain was milky white and smooth as a babies butt. She was encompassed by phobias, riddled with irrational fears. She lived inside her head; perfectly manacled to her dreams.

She was married of course – to a stranger as it turned out. They collided on the periphery of their daily lives, never knowing the other with any depth. She possessed a wicked temper and drummed her heels in great tantrums which bemused the man; he had a phlegmatic nature. They never bit deep; there was no blood in that relationship.

I was there for a short while – under their roof – close to the hearth. I betrayed them both, as was my style. I could dig her skin and her brittle smile. I wasted little time in plotting her seduction. I presumed she had hidden depths as yet unfathomed and that I would be the one to draw them to the surface. An error on my part; her goods were on display, at the surface, they went no further than that.

It was a woeful misadventure; a giant tactical miscalculation. Often what seems exciting in the dreaming is fraught with sorry entanglements in real life. When it was drawn out into the light our dirty little secret seemed as retched as cum stained sheets. There was a scene and shown the door I left like a scalded cat. Some people are so uptight about a little play. There were tears, of course, but mine were from laughter.
.

21 February 2015

Icarus

Icarus
How high is too high? How low is too low?
I’m stretched across impossible altitudes. I got the vertigo, that cold dizzying flush, but who cares when flying is suddenly so easy? I can see my life from here; it seems so small and lacking any real significance. What matters is now, this moment of flight, this instance of freedom. I’m reaching for forbidden constellations while my feet, caked in mud, are sinking into the earth. These unnatural avionics, they say, are the result of faulty wiring. Who needs drugs when you have aerial acuity and are filled with grandiose intentions?

Oh, this is cool – this is sweet. My trepidation gives way to exhilaration as my aerobatics become practised and concise. You never lose it, the power of flight, and having once flown you never forget the exaltation those wings of wax can bring. This apparatus has been well examined and its flaws are well documented, but I’ll milk this sensation for as long as I can. I’ll ride this fucker until I hit a cul de sac and slam once more into sodden ground. Crash landings are the price you pay for your time aloft; some reckon it’s worth the fee.
.