Desoil

Clouds VII

We’d been on the roof for what felt like centuries, but it was probably only hours.  Picking at pieces of old tile and gravel, I sprinkle them on the remains of her torn and battered sneakers as the wind whips our greasy hair around our greasy faces.  We sat side by side, downwind of each other, with the sun at our backs and droplets of sweat dancing around our exposed vertebrae like people dodging across a minefield.

I’d long ago given up trying to connect with this strange thing – with a face shaped like those lunchbox cheese triangles and a plastic child’s ring; the smiling face now melted and demented, and adorned with a small shard of razor sharp glass.  I told her; try feeling a real emotion but she would always ask what is real?  Is it what you read in your books? 

I feel less for a human being than I do for a pile of abandoned bricks. 

Last week, on her birthday, we met a ghost from her past.  Five hours later, the guy who’d bullied her all through school – the guy who’d taken her pencil cases, lunch money and other more precious things – hung upside down from his ankle, circling gently in the wind like a diseased rotisserie chicken.  As he dripped into a bucket just below his head, the breathing becoming ever more laboured and wheezing, she poked his chest with the crowbar that had done so much to extinguish those teenage memories and said this is real.  He’s still warm.  We could revive him.  But we won’t… because it’s been decided already. 

Back on the roof, I put an arm out over her cold shoulders.  Even as the sun beats down, it reflects off those bones and violently ricochets in a rainbow arc.  After we cut down the person who’d done so much to create what would eventually destroy him, I asked her if she believed in love… or God?  She told me; I believe in every breath we take potentially being our last. 

Now, I see what she means.  Sitting up high overlooking a town so dismal that trees cannot root and instead tumble in the wind, with one more ghost now fermenting inside the soil which is still caked under my fingernails, I can see no endings to any of this…. only endless beginnings that I stupidly ignored.

Designs

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She’s like every autumnal daydream, but with hairier armpits and an infected toe.  The white bandage, yellowing in spots, pokes out like an eager tumour from open heels.  We walk hand in hand but yards apart, because I’ll interfere with her wings apparently…. oh fucking whatever, woman.  I roll my eyes so often I can feel Sisyphus struggling on my eyelashes.  On the bright side, we can swallow up a busy pavement, sending old people on mobility scooters into oncoming traffic; taking out little kids with no awareness of how hard two fists clamped together with love can be to break.

We eat ice cream in a seaside town, and she laughs at topless old men with pubes on their chest, skin peeling at the shoulders and scrags of chips in the nipples like savoury piercings.  We watch the gentle hiss of the sea as it approaches the bathers, waders, whales and grandmothers, encroaching and retreating like a threatened cat, scared of all this filthy humanity polluting the already brown water with Factor 50.

We pass the arcades where exasperated parents stand bored as little Tarquin and Emily blast the heads off zombies; Mum and Dad are preparing their lines for an earlier breakfast fight not yet settled.  Others wander around with tubs of coppers, like this worthless browngreen shit that you pass on the street is now precious suddenly.

We hear a strange noise, like the very Earth has indigestion.  Behind a row of bucket and spade shops, a ferris wheel is beginning to tilt and then topple.  The screams of the manicled prisoners gradually grow in intensity, starting with individual voices at the top, before being swallowed up in a hurricane wail as the Big Wheel slams down out of sight, in a deafening eruption of dust.  The screams silence immediately, followed by the roar of a laughing tide, and the gradual murmur of paralysed consternation, people on phones, people asking the person next to them what happened, people running to the scene, people rushing to film the carnage.

Huh, look at that she says…. she’s pointing to a blob of ice cream on her nose, and laughing.

Digest

Sea XIII

Do you remember the story of the monk at the old church?  We took the bus on an icy evening and waited for hours until the moon was warm on our faces and our feet were wet with melted frost, tromping through long grass.  Don’t you remember?

That old church, where the chicken bones were trussed together into crosses, and that teenage lad fell from the tower and broke himself in half over the stone tomb of the priest who’d died in 1886.  We’d gone up there with torches and we heard a noise above, and you shone yours up at him, and he covered his eyes…

….and he came down screaming like a daemon.  And in the dark I thought he had sixteen arms and legs, and his mouth was wide open as though to consume me, and drag me to hell….

….but then he spun around midair as I dived out of the way.  Crack!  On his back, across the raised triangular stone.  Ribs bursting out, blossoming like flower petals opening.  You remember?  The boy gasping, his eyes wide, as we realised he was both alive and dead, until his two parts gently disconnected with a pop and slithered either side to the flagstone floor.

Anyway, I digress. The old monk.  We took that journey so many times.  We read all the books about the monk who flitted around the grounds.  Why do ghosts always flit?  Why don’t they mince or swagger?  That poor boy though.  That poor boy.

Drench

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She has a voice that shatters memory.  Every time I hear it, I forget another birthday.  Another past crush dies.  Relatives cease to be names or faces.  I cannot bring them back.  I can only focus on hips, knees and shoulders.  A tuft of hair above The Zone that I deliberately nibble on so I get a thread caught in my teeth.  It makes me feel like a teenager again.

I look for her car as I walk the streets; any time I see that model in that colour I push my chest out and lift my chin.  It might be her, and I don’t want to be slouching.  I have nightmares about tripping over my laces and falling at her feet, breaking my nose and bleeding all over her sandals.

She calls me Martin and she calls me a cunt.  I’m neither.  But I give up dignity and identity to cuddle her jacket when she gets too warm.  I rehearse conversations in my spare time, and then try to spring my ‘spontaneous’ one liners on her anecdotes.  They always fail.  I always stumble.

Perhaps I’m too weak to be adored.  Her on-off boyfriend, Taylor, is now off.  He was too weak to see a rival in the short grass when he focused all his attention in the trees.  That’s why he looked the other way when I lost control of my car, breaking his pelvis.

I see her, sitting in the park.  Chest out, chin up.  Hold that thought…

 

 

Merry

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I’m only comfortable when I’m sitting on the floor, pressed against a wall.  I stare into the blemishes of the concrete, my flesh airtight against the cold.  I push my forehead into the stone until it pains and then bleeds, and lukewarm red meanders down my cheeks.  Red rivulets run and saunter over my eyes until I cannot see beyond the scarlet.

I talk into the bricks, quietly but firmly, picking words that make my chest vibrate and my throat wobble.  Words like; melodious – intimidating – destruction – organ – obtuse – magnificent.  Nowhere to go, the vibrations bounce from the walls back into my chest cavity and suddenly I’m swimming with the words, arm-wrestling with them, pulling at their kicking legs and clamping around their waistlines.  I relish each syllable, running them through my cheeks and over my tongue like liquor mouthwash, until they burn my gums and I have to release them.

Meander.  Beautiful.  Uncontrollable.  I place my knee under the chin and allow my voicebox to tremble over my skin.  The vibrations dance over my bones, as though my tendons and ligaments are guitar strings.

Adam.  Brian.  Courtney.  When I leave the house, I threaten people.  Grabbing them by their lapels, I hold a cut-throat shaver to their eyes and ask them the usual.  Money.  Phone.  Unlock codes.  Never cards or pin numbers; it’s too easy to turn them into redundant plastic rectangles.  But I ask for their names.

Later, pressed against the wall, I give them a try.

Marmaduke.  Gary.

 

She Only Kisses On Thursdays

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She hides one eye behind a torrent of thick, globulous, dyed hair.  Teeth like an antique piano, I fantasise about their tune.  Lame, I know.  But then, I’m the guy who hovers around the beans, the peas and the tinned fish; with my squeaky trainers and leather trenchcoat; too big for my shoulders and too hot for a July afternoon.  All for a glimpse, or maybe for nothing.  The security guards follow me, pushing the products forward, making everything neat, making sure the labels match.  I put my hands in my pockets and pretend I am cocking a pistol.  I don’t know how; I just watch too many films, and I’ve practised the noise using the spit on my tongue.

I dream of being fondled inappropriately, because I’m too shy to make the first move, and too male to ever find the experience distressing.  Sweat runs down my arms and tickles my fingers.  The air fills with fresh bread and sweet donuts.  My high-necked roll collar itches against shaving rash.

She always smiles.  Looking down into the glass cabinet, then looking up.  Curling that clotted curtain of hair over one ear.  She’s always happy to see me.

Like today.

The Girl On The Bakery opens a gusher, without any warning.  I stand powerless.  The same smile, the same look, and then a plunge into her own arm with scissors from her pocket.  Two of the staff immediately rush to her aid.  The rest are sprinting to save the daily bread.

Grasp

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I walk across grass fields, my hands deep in my pockets, boots filling with water.  No moon tonight, just stars peeking from behind the pollution of a dismal town.  This bare space of green darkens in the glare of the sprawl nearby; a shy lover shrinking away from foul breath.  I look around and realise I am invisible, but I can see everything.

The woods loom up ahead, uncertain, so I sit on a nearby dead tree and don’t disturb further.  Sticks snap and trunks creak, in the background the static hum of a pointless conveyor belt – cars and drunks.  I’m shivering.  I wrap my scarf tighter to my neck and carry on.

I climb the hill and look over my shoulder as the town glows fetid below.  I never really felt a connection to it and now I never shall.  I’ll forever be Other.  I’ll always be Something Else.  The footpath tiptoes out between tall concrete walls.  I find a dark gap, and wait.

The Man approaches, humming a song to himself.  He’s wearing headphones, the white cord glowing.  As he approaches the gap I emerge calmly from the shadows, jamming the knife under his ribs, pushing him against the wall.  We scratch our boots across loose gravel.  He threatens to cry out, but doesn’t.

I look into his eyes as they throb and pulse, pulling the hilt up to cut deeper.  My wrist is warm.  He will never hurt you anymore.  Like a dying candle, his eyes fade.