‘Will you come today?’
He sits there, fumbling with the remote. ‘Stocks, Annie. I got to watch this.’
‘Stocks are on every day Papa. She raises the flowers in her right hand. 'I only get these three months a year.’
‘We’ll go tomorrow. You got three months right?’ Rubs his balding head gently. His hand comes to the side of his face. The open window blows his thinning hair. It is a reminder.
‘Papa.’
The television hums. Tears drip onto his cardigan.
‘Maury, stop-’
‘Come on. You’ve seen that film.’
‘What? This is a graveyard Maury, we’re not doing that here.’
‘Alright. What about next to that tree?’
She looks over and in the movement catches Maury’s grin. He shifts his leg slightly and that hardness fumbles against her leg. She hates dicks for their lack of personality. A dick would make a great marketing executive. A giant cock raps at spreadsheets and sales graphs as she pulls Maury to the tree and undoes his belt.
01 October, 2008
trying to write a story in reverse (I kind of miss the mark)
Each beat, each bam bam bam, leaves his hands tingling. Soon they will blister, maybe bleed, but each beat gets him further away and happier still.
His hands are already bloody. So too his face and shoes.
Catching up to the boy whose drumkit it was, grabbing his neck and throwing punch after punch and putting kicks in wanting to be sure he would get a long time on the kit by himself, as himself.
The boy whose kit it is walking further ahead, sprinting at times, unable not to, a mess of beats and cola and John Bonham, to this place out back of nowhere where a few old water barrels and tins and bits of wood make his kit.
It is a thing he is proud of and a thing he loves and a thing he is bragging about in school as every other kid listens jealously.
His hands are already bloody. So too his face and shoes.
Catching up to the boy whose drumkit it was, grabbing his neck and throwing punch after punch and putting kicks in wanting to be sure he would get a long time on the kit by himself, as himself.
The boy whose kit it is walking further ahead, sprinting at times, unable not to, a mess of beats and cola and John Bonham, to this place out back of nowhere where a few old water barrels and tins and bits of wood make his kit.
It is a thing he is proud of and a thing he loves and a thing he is bragging about in school as every other kid listens jealously.
Snoring (Performance)
‘Consistency. That’s what I was telling her Mart. You don’t need to have everything, you don’t even need to know all that much-’
‘Why are you telling our daughter this Ray?’
‘I’ve never been honest with that kid Mart. All through school, telling her she was never as good as she was. She must have taken me for an idiot. I know that teacher did. Hearing me talk like that.’
He lies on his side, facing the wall now. He used to sleep on his back, but he snored. Nothing worked. Pills, less beer, water before bed, even a small ball of cotton wool on his tongue. Ray was a snorer.
‘Paul wants to meet you, Dad. I know you don’t have time this weekend but…’
She pulled that old check cardigan around her, pushing her fingers on the steel table. The sun had gone in and the waiter stood beneath the awning, hands laced behind him.
‘We can meet. I’d like to see the boy.’ He dips his head a bit, flashes that grin Mart loved on the bleachers with those other boys in roll-up t-shirts. ‘See if he’s up to Jessica’s standard.’
‘I’m right here. We don’t need a third person in this.’ She leaned back and dug her hands in her pockets. Stalemate, all for a 1970s hotel and dog-eared magazines in racks next to your knees.
‘Did you meet Paul?’
He rolled onto his back. ‘No,’ he said finally. It came out like the last apple in a wet sack found at the bottom of the shed. ‘She said we’d meet next time I was in town.’
‘She said that last time too Ray.’
‘I know Mart.’ Crooked his hands behind his head, looked at the ceiling.
Why couldn’t he stop snoring?
‘Why are you telling our daughter this Ray?’
‘I’ve never been honest with that kid Mart. All through school, telling her she was never as good as she was. She must have taken me for an idiot. I know that teacher did. Hearing me talk like that.’
He lies on his side, facing the wall now. He used to sleep on his back, but he snored. Nothing worked. Pills, less beer, water before bed, even a small ball of cotton wool on his tongue. Ray was a snorer.
‘Paul wants to meet you, Dad. I know you don’t have time this weekend but…’
She pulled that old check cardigan around her, pushing her fingers on the steel table. The sun had gone in and the waiter stood beneath the awning, hands laced behind him.
‘We can meet. I’d like to see the boy.’ He dips his head a bit, flashes that grin Mart loved on the bleachers with those other boys in roll-up t-shirts. ‘See if he’s up to Jessica’s standard.’
‘I’m right here. We don’t need a third person in this.’ She leaned back and dug her hands in her pockets. Stalemate, all for a 1970s hotel and dog-eared magazines in racks next to your knees.
‘Did you meet Paul?’
He rolled onto his back. ‘No,’ he said finally. It came out like the last apple in a wet sack found at the bottom of the shed. ‘She said we’d meet next time I was in town.’
‘She said that last time too Ray.’
‘I know Mart.’ Crooked his hands behind his head, looked at the ceiling.
Why couldn’t he stop snoring?
Theme of Performance
On the same stage I would watch when it held my fucking heroes I sweat and fucking wail at these wide eyed and beautiful people I grew up here with but just before.
Last night of tour and fuck all the agent bullshit and roadies I want to fucking swing into my old school bar and drink like a fucking knight.
I sing the big songs tonight and I sing them fucking big. But deep in maybe my heart I know someone out there is waiting for me to sing my real biggest song, a song I’ve been trying to write since I first strummed a chord or however I started now.
I know because I was waiting for that song, thinking I would never be the one to write it.
And here my people are waiting for this big, big song of my life. I’m waiting for it.
And tonight there will be no big drinks, even if I can get away from the obligations.
It will just be me, writing to myself, trying to remember exactly how close I was to singing one of my other big songs just right on this stage for these people who want me to do it.
Last night of tour and fuck all the agent bullshit and roadies I want to fucking swing into my old school bar and drink like a fucking knight.
I sing the big songs tonight and I sing them fucking big. But deep in maybe my heart I know someone out there is waiting for me to sing my real biggest song, a song I’ve been trying to write since I first strummed a chord or however I started now.
I know because I was waiting for that song, thinking I would never be the one to write it.
And here my people are waiting for this big, big song of my life. I’m waiting for it.
And tonight there will be no big drinks, even if I can get away from the obligations.
It will just be me, writing to myself, trying to remember exactly how close I was to singing one of my other big songs just right on this stage for these people who want me to do it.
21 July, 2008
No Ice (Night In The City and A Letter)
I sat in the mountain town with the ice on the windows until my nose froze up and my snot looked like emerald crystals. It took eighteen years, but that letter came like I knew it would. It took eighteen years for me to get over the mountain for one night in the city, but I got there like I knew I would.
There was ice in the city as well. A little. It was on the conifers planted at eighteen foot intervals along Central, and I used them as a speedometer in my rusted Plymouth. Not as much ice though. When I got into the centre, the ice was nowhere to be seen.
I waited on the street he told me about. I could see his reason for rapture; I could see that just going out for cigarettes held no sway over this street. A hundred tiny shreds of yesterday’s newspaper blustered like confetti as long white buses streaked around the streets, dripping oil and picking up huddled groups of passengers, battened down with fur and galoshes.
I sat outside the graveyard, and looked at the café where my mother used to work when he met her. He used to leave a chessboard on the pink linen tabletop with a game in play. When he came back the next morning, he’d carry on. When he lost, after six weeks of one move a day, he asked who had beaten him. Cappucinos and chess were what he loved her for.
The letter said to catch the last bus. He lived on every bus route. There was no ice on any of them. I found the wooden door in the red brick tenement house, and walked into the grey hallway as dawn began to peer through the eastern windowframe. I sat at the bottom of the stairs and waited for him to come back with cigarettes.
There was ice in the city as well. A little. It was on the conifers planted at eighteen foot intervals along Central, and I used them as a speedometer in my rusted Plymouth. Not as much ice though. When I got into the centre, the ice was nowhere to be seen.
I waited on the street he told me about. I could see his reason for rapture; I could see that just going out for cigarettes held no sway over this street. A hundred tiny shreds of yesterday’s newspaper blustered like confetti as long white buses streaked around the streets, dripping oil and picking up huddled groups of passengers, battened down with fur and galoshes.
I sat outside the graveyard, and looked at the café where my mother used to work when he met her. He used to leave a chessboard on the pink linen tabletop with a game in play. When he came back the next morning, he’d carry on. When he lost, after six weeks of one move a day, he asked who had beaten him. Cappucinos and chess were what he loved her for.
The letter said to catch the last bus. He lived on every bus route. There was no ice on any of them. I found the wooden door in the red brick tenement house, and walked into the grey hallway as dawn began to peer through the eastern windowframe. I sat at the bottom of the stairs and waited for him to come back with cigarettes.
A letter and a city
“If I go any further I’m to shit myself,” I say very loud to my friends and strangers.
Behind a supermarket on a main street anyone could have seen me doing it. I forget to wipe when I start reading what I was going to wipe with.
“You need never fear your eyes are cold, they are full of a million things. You look like you have a hundred stories to…”
I’m scanning and I stumble to the next bar.
“I think about you and I dribble bits of pre-cum,” is my opening line to my gathered friends (and strangers). The enquiries are made and I read on.
“Even your nose has it’s own perfect details, a slight curve, little freckles,”
“Wow.”
“Pathetic."
We’re laughing. The nose thing reminds me of Sal, the ex-girlfriend.
“Your breasts are firm and beautiful, your fingers are slender and strong,”
One of Sal’s things was about my hands.
“Christ, this is fucking shit,” I spit everywhere. Applause arrives after some lines.
I remember a vision of Sal when the line “after you kissed me the first time with your mum in the other room,” and with laughter I skip to the end.
Obviously it’s my fucking name right there.
I didn’t wipe my arse in the end. What happened to this letter?
And someone snatches it off me and everyone laughs again, so fucking hard.
“Fuck you, cunts,” I stand up, “you’re the shit of the earth,” and then I fuck off.
Behind a supermarket on a main street anyone could have seen me doing it. I forget to wipe when I start reading what I was going to wipe with.
“You need never fear your eyes are cold, they are full of a million things. You look like you have a hundred stories to…”
I’m scanning and I stumble to the next bar.
“I think about you and I dribble bits of pre-cum,” is my opening line to my gathered friends (and strangers). The enquiries are made and I read on.
“Even your nose has it’s own perfect details, a slight curve, little freckles,”
“Wow.”
“Pathetic."
We’re laughing. The nose thing reminds me of Sal, the ex-girlfriend.
“Your breasts are firm and beautiful, your fingers are slender and strong,”
One of Sal’s things was about my hands.
“Christ, this is fucking shit,” I spit everywhere. Applause arrives after some lines.
I remember a vision of Sal when the line “after you kissed me the first time with your mum in the other room,” and with laughter I skip to the end.
Obviously it’s my fucking name right there.
I didn’t wipe my arse in the end. What happened to this letter?
And someone snatches it off me and everyone laughs again, so fucking hard.
“Fuck you, cunts,” I stand up, “you’re the shit of the earth,” and then I fuck off.
Light and Ash (Classical Monster)
All the houses are full of light and ash; it is there in equal abundance. Dust roils in the corners of the low-beamed dining room, and as I walk through it, I hear heartbeats. I smell vitality, and I fear knowledge. I was born out of wedlock, and my father deceived my mother. I know what it is to deceive innocence.
It is agony. I hear the rushes, I smell the sweat, and I feel the light on their forehead. I was born in darkness, and I was born again in darkness. My father deceived me.
I fall beneath the oaken table and clasp my ears. It is not a matter of hearing; more a matter of knowing, and that is an irreversible process. Outside the moonlight still whispers through conifers; the dark’s pets crawl and scrabble over stone and oak. Men drink in houses; they sit around tables as though I have never happened. In the light, I have not. By darkness, they know I will.
Innocence is easily devoured by the dark. Fear is harder to see when you see nothing at all. They see me, and they know fear. I know innocence; I was born in darkness.
It is agony. I hear the rushes, I smell the sweat, and I feel the light on their forehead. I was born in darkness, and I was born again in darkness. My father deceived me.
I fall beneath the oaken table and clasp my ears. It is not a matter of hearing; more a matter of knowing, and that is an irreversible process. Outside the moonlight still whispers through conifers; the dark’s pets crawl and scrabble over stone and oak. Men drink in houses; they sit around tables as though I have never happened. In the light, I have not. By darkness, they know I will.
Innocence is easily devoured by the dark. Fear is harder to see when you see nothing at all. They see me, and they know fear. I know innocence; I was born in darkness.
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