Debris

DSC_0047

On a stale summer evening, balancing on a single rail, I light a cigarette and let my eyes water over filthy cheeks as the smoke washes over me.  I feel the dirt when I smile, and I feel the tears dancing through the grime when I cry, so I do neither.  Kicking through the litter and detritus, I listen for the sharp warning blasts from the freight trains that steam and rumble past dragging waggons full of sulphur, or rattling past carrying nothing but dead air and waste.

I dream of climbing the trees I sometimes see on torn billboards, and on the faded juice bottle labels.  Sometimes I’ll steal a fresh one from Frankie’s Shop – I go in with a piece of glass melted into a toothbrush handle and threaten his one remaining eye.  The poor old bastard just nods and holds up money as I go for the broken freezer cabinet and brace for the flies that buzz around the milk.  I run as fast as my panic will let me, even though I know he’ll never tell.

Around the corner, across the car park, behind the burger van and through the fence onto the railway that severs the town into two rotten apple halves, I sit on the floor and stare at the label.  I dream of trees, and I dream of the day I can climb one just to be closer to the sky – the hazy blue I see beyond the veil of ochre.  There are no real trees here; just cold lifeless and slippery searchlights, and the harsh pylons who guard like diseased and underfed sentinels, wrapped in sharp wire and frying all but the few coughing birds who pass through.

I’ve never wished for anything – just more colours than grey and the oxidised brown rust that gets under my fingernails and stains my hair.

DSC_0094

As the amber evening turns into a dark brown night, I climb the disintergrating wooden steps up to the old signal box.  The mattress is finally dry and the room is quiet and warm.  I feel the glow from the remains of the day through the broken window panes and I know tonight I will sleep better than I have done in three months.

I go to a corner of the room and remove a pile of rags – inside is a box of dumped fireworks.  I light one and send it up through the hole in the roof above my bed.  With a whistle it flies, followed by blue lines like thin leaves, a loud pop, and then the dull purples as the colour mingles with the air, and the sparks descend like doomed paratroopers.  I hope she has seen my signal, and I hope she will return soon.

I need my girl, and for those octopus arms to entwine me safe.

 

Grove

DSC_0051

Walking across a dark, rainy bridge of suicides, I can feel her tender hands around mine keeping me from the edge.  Around us, drifts of snow are piled and dirty like dead sheep, but there’s gold in those eyes and silver glinting in those teeth.

We will always walk this path, even now… even thirty years after the fact when your face is covered by the mist of a few broken hearts, a few hundred whiskeys and a few thousand dull days staring into faces as bland as dinner plates.  I sit on the floor, surrounded by a week’s worth of TV dinners buzzing with insects, and I clench my hand into a fist… and as the nails dig into my skin I feel the warmth of yours.  Wherever you are now – happy, no doubt – you will never know how often you save me.

On rainy evenings, I throw on a rucksack and trudge out into the mire.  Ignoring the hiss of passing cars in the spray, and the glare of headlights, I stare down at the soft colours – all those sunflower yellows from reflected streetlights, dark purples and blues from the oily puddles under my feet, and the black mass of the old bridge as solid as a marble tomb.

I don’t sleep anymore, I just shut my eyes and think of the nice things I want to have.  I wiggle my toes under the blanket and imagine cool grass and innocence, before I burned myself on finite desire.

Abhor

DSC_0031

We always tried to be angels, but her smile made me want to spit in the face of God.  We tore along the street like lava, consuming everything in our wake.  When she grabbed my hand and told me to stop, I watched her vault into the open top of a sports car and wink at me – one hand on the wheel, one arm propped on the door.  As I stared, waiting for the punchline, I heard it… the steady hiss of piss as she wet herself and the leather interior before vaulting away.

Sure, we smashed a few windows, and sure, we upset a few natives.  We ran to the churchyard and pulled down as many slabs as we could before mounting each other on the cold slab of a former vicar.  She rode me, legs splayed wide across my hips, jeans still hanging off one ankle and dripping yellow, t-shirt knotted up and arms out to receive the sun.  We came in unison and rolled off, landing with a winding thud in a pile of autumn leaves.  Kissing my nose, she bit her lip and for a moment I saw true love… true companionship…lying in the hundred scents of a thousand dry brown leaves.

Lying under the stars later that evening, she points at one and says ‘Mary Linskill.’ Then another, ‘Alfred Broe’.  When I ask she tells me; these are the names of the people whose tombs we upset….and the stars are their spirits in the dark.

Puncture-Kindra M. Austin & Jimmi Campkin —

PUNCTURE Kindra M. Austin and Jimmi Campkin I know damn well where the bastard’s been, but I ask him anyway, just for shits and giggles. He tells me to take a short walk off a long pier—idiot, stinking of another man’s piss and strawberry nudy-bar incense. He’d sat in his car getting blotto before going […]

via Puncture-Kindra M. Austin & Jimmi Campkin —

Touch The Endings, Hold Them Dear

DSC_0023

Self-righteous and profane we tear up the streets with the force of Love… or is it just Cacophany… or just raw and naked Lust, that primal mud in which we swim and suck, fondle and fuck, until our eyes roll back inside our minds.  This bewitchment that drives us into slander and insanity, where every friend is now an enemy, and all tongues suffer only to taste each other’s organs and selves.

After driving recklessly for a few hours we abandoned the car inside the pet shop, crashing through the main window into a haze of sawdust and straw.  Clambering from the wreckage, we stand by the ruins smoking a pair of cigarettes and encouraging the more timid animals to Get Out There and Be Free.  We say quiet prayers that nothing will be eaten, nothing will die.  She whips her arms around like a ferris wheel, as parakeets fly, imploring this dank world to be free.  Be freeeeeee!  BE FREEEEEEEE!  I stamp into her spinning top path and grab her shoulders.  BE FREEEEEE I scream into her face and she eats my tongue without spilling a drop of my blood.

We take each others hands and disappear under the dark archways and into the backstreets, shelter of the angels.  People might call them junkies, winos, whores, but we hear their laughter and we smell their dead flesh as it drops from the bone to blossom and seethe and spread as black tar on the cracked paving slabs.  We see them falling like autumn flowers, infesting concrete cancer with societal guilt… and there is nothing anyone can do to stop us.  Behind the terraces Lady B, in her plaid skirt, fucks a priest who demands to be called Father.  There is no salvation from the damned, it’s just them and us who choose to melt into the streets to grow society anew – without guilt, without principle, without malice.

One day, I want to take a chainsaw to the tree bark that grows under her skin until the dust flies.  Resting under the old railway we smoke from light bulbs and cut our foreheads open until we see the knits of our skulls.  She is autumn to me – straggled and terracotta, wise and damp.  Above us we can hear unfamilar cries mingling with the usual circus; the melodies of the fallen who still sing even as the ground absorbs them into a stain, and the gentle cackling of freed tropical birds.