Tuesday, May 5, 2009


every second monday is a bummer
but at least the booze is cheap
a battered old suitcase to a hotel
someplace but the wound will
heal just fine

never thought i'd hear the tale
of disco days and edible secrets
in some held together claptrap
that devours hours and minutes
ring ring

what a laugh that was but a pity
we can't share the joke but you
know what they say about lost
in translation et tout ca if only
i was bill

swimming in darkness and old
linen while a face keeps me
away from the explosions and
gripping programming that is
my own

thanks for the heads-up it was
the least you could have done
but sure isn't it more fun this way?
wait, that looks lovely, give it
a try

a change of scenery does the heart
good but it scares me so as well
a wolf like me ain't used to these
long, cold winter night but surely
i'll get there

ich heisse eric und ich komme
aus irland sollte ich das fur sie
schreiben? vielleicht ware es
besser oder ganz normal
wie immer

the edges are blurring and so
are the hairstyles, it feels like
im peering through the cream
or is it the butter on a shelf
too salty

five bells rang out while i
searched frantically for treasure
he wasn't best impressed but at
least he didn't mind when i called
for help

if i were facing toward mecca
i'd be sorted in a mirror, nothing
here but the smartest little builders
in all the colours of the rainbow
yum yum

north the pain west the past
east the future south the present
all free and easy but not yet
they can find me when they
want to

Thursday, April 23, 2009

A Gentleman's Purchase - Part 1

The Man kept his head bowed low, averting his eyes from those approaching him so as not to meet their gaze, instead focusing intently on his plain, brown shoes as he made his way through the crowded city street. The wind today was fierce and bitter, and as it howled past his ear and whipped along his trim, clipped hair, he pulled his long, grey trench-coat tighter around his body. It was not a coat that he was quite fond of, yet the only one he had; at times, he was almost grateful for it, as it was quite adept at hiding him from the outside world. It had been given to him as a gift, one he had received upon leaving his previous employment, or so he recalled. He almost grudgingly wore it so as not to offend any of his former colleagues he may have encountered with a passing glance while going about his business. But he was pleased to have it now, as it was most efficient in keeping away the worst effects of this icy wind. He did not need to ask for directions, nor did he require them; he had replicated this journey in the recesses of his mind for months now.

He recalled his first glance at it. It had been a reasonably warm summer day, underwhelming, yet he had been grateful that the heat had not been in any form of extremity. He had walked briskly through the crowd with his usual inconspicuous gait, when his attention was most unceremoniously jerked towards a display in a shop window. There, upon a most fine and delicately crafted velvet cushion, stood the Object. His gaze was fixed, and the sense of longing and desire the object had filled him with was immeasurable. Oh, how exquisitely beautiful it seemed to the Man! His pupils traced along the curves of the Object, scrutinizing every crevice to be found on its brilliant surface, drinking deep every detail he could find therein. Such wonderful designs were delicately painted upon the fine material from which it had been made, designs which seemed to call to the Man, to entice him. Yet paradoxically, the details almost seemed irrelevant to the Man. The one, overpowering emotion which washed through his body as soon as he laid eyes upon the Object was simple, almost animal; he must have it. But unfortunately, as is so often the case with animal desires, they are inevitably superceded by human limitations, and his own limitation at this moment in question was simple; he lacked the necessary amount of money with which to purchase the Object. Cursing his insufficient finances silently, he swore to himself, standing there before the large, gaudily decorated shop window, that he would do everything within his own ability to gain sufficient funds with which to finally make the Object his own.

It was this sole memory which had motivated the Man through the past year to accumulate the money needed for his purchase. For this year, he had exploited every outlet he possibly could to make money, some actions of which he was not proud, and finally, by year’s end, he had achieved his goal, a moment which had filled him with the most pleasant sensation he had felt since first gazing upon the Object. He gripped the small money purse tightly in the pocket of his coat, his eyes darting furiously, almost suspecting that some young hooligan would snatch it from his grasp, dashing his chance to finally purchase the Object. Exhaling gently, he proceeded to push aside the door of the shop’s entrance. It was finally here; the moment when he would purchase the Object. With his hand overcome by a slight tremble, he fumbled in his pocket for his satchel of coins. His hand had lost its previously tight grip thereon, presumably brought about by the bout of excitement which had overcome him. He loosened the strings of the satchel and allowed the coins to fall onto the palm of his left hand, the metallic cacophony a pleasing, almost fitting, tune with which to orchestrate this moment. He looked up from the palm of his hand, his brief inventory reassuring him that he had brought the necessary amount of money with him. What greeted his gaze gave him considerable discomfort, however. He began to perspire, his mouth became dry. There was something horribly wrong. There, standing at the shop counter, purchasing the Object, his Object, was a Gentleman.

A Gentleman's Purchase - foreword

I began writing A Gentleman's Purchase several years ago, back in the latter stages of secondary school, when a situation befell me to which I reacted in a manner that didn't make me feel like the most noble person on the planet. It's not yet finished, but in recent times I've revisited it, mainly because I want to finish it and see how it turns out. This seemed like the most suitable outlet to post it for the edification of others, so leave me know what you think. We're always learning and all that.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

The good girl


The good girl awoke with a start, taking huge, gulping mouthfuls of breath as she tried to ascertain just what had startled her so. Shaking it off as nothing more than a bad dream, she focused on the next distraction laid upon her - a thumping headache.

The dull taste of last night's booze, coupled with the sickly, unmistakable tang of vomit, told her all she needed to know about last night's proceedings. Coiling the covers about her knees, she groaned audibly, burying her head beneath her pillow, willing the side-effects of a good night's partying away.

no joy

Slowly she dragged her thin frame from the enormous mattress, silently pleading with it to swallow her up and keep her from facing the trials of the day.

i'm sorry baby but come on you know i'm good for it

She weakly blew her strands of blonde hair from her pale blue eyes. Failing to clear her line of vision on the first attempt, she giggled in spite of herself. She tried again, still to no avail. She was in peals of laughter, wishing that she had someone with her to share the moment, but secretly delighted by its privacy.

Eventually, she resorted to a more conventional method. Fumbling around the shrapnel in her room - discarded shoes, strands of wool - she eventually stumbled upon a hair clip. She brushed back her hair and held it in place with the tiny metallic object. Satisfied with her handiwork, she ventured onwards. A glance in the mirror was not an option - she hated how she looked after a night out.

Audrey are you up Audrey AUDREY go fuck yourself so

Each stair was an ordeal in its own right, serving to only further accentuate the silent cacophony in her head.


The tap was strenuous, so was the effort required lifting the kettle. It would all be worth it, she reassured herself. The fridge croaked as she opened it in search of milk.

two pints, two pints, two pints of milk, CLICK that was fast

A ritual oft repeated but seldom so desired. Life-giving liquid, milk of the mother. Chipped china cups and nearly-stale biscuits. The smell alone put her mind at ease.


She smiled again, a second time. She wouldn't need to pour another.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Officer report

I'm in danger of falling apart on everyone
but not before I've done my washing. Because that would be just
just criminal!
Don't tell anyone I said that, okay?
I'd hate to think he thought that I though any less of him
When I thought that I did.

But never mind
I'll be a shoulder to cry on
To laugh on
To love on
To die on.
I've no qualms with that.
Least ways, I don't think I do...

Whoops, gotta run
Gotta poster my own shame
On the walls for all to see
But I don't blame them for laughing
Sure, I'm in fits myself
Or so I'd like them to think.
It all fell apart, I cried
They laughed
I don't know what to make of it all.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Night night

And so he spoke to the little pixie on his shoulder.

"Where are we going?" he asked, as the lights sped by in a blur while the bus trundled on. It was late, past the time he'd usually pass out, but he was close to it. His eyes lolled about in his head and he struggled to hold it upright.

"Home," said the pixie, with a devilish smile across their face. He liked his new friend. They had come to him that night after a trip to the bathroom. He told him lots of things. He told him how wonderful he was, how well he looked and how everyone in the bar wanted to talk to him.

"Good. I like going home," came his reply. The lights seemed to be going faster. By now, they were just a stream of colour, like someone had held a paintbrush to the windows of the bus and refused to let go. He sat there for a moment, entranced by the city's little peep show. Then came the screeching.

"What's the sound?" he asked the pixie anxiously. "Don't worry," said the pixie calmly. "It'll all be over soon. Just close your eyes."

He listened to what the pixie told him. He was always right. As the screeching grew louder, he screwed up his eyes tighter. He didn't feel it as the bus mounted the curb and struck the bus-stop. He didn't hear it as the windows shattered and splinters of glass flew across the upper deck as the bus toppled over. He didn't know what was happening as he was thrown from his seat, his head cracking off tarmac, warm streams of blood gushing from the gashes like they were gleefully fleeing a prison.

"We're home now," said the pixie. "Go to sleep."

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Between sleep and waking part 7

"What just happened? Status report!" came the general's cry.

"No idea sir, we've never seen anything like!" replied a lowly grunt, quaking with fear at what he had just seen. Shock abounded. The victim had just disappeared. At first, he was sprawled on the ground, dead, with a pool of blood formed on the ground as proof of his extermination.

"He just vanished! What the fuck happened?" was the confused bark of the general. "Where the fuck did he go?!"