Pencilled on eyebrows rage against the dying light,
Shellac nails and a bun pulled tight;
Taut features, smooth yet stressed,
A slack shirt freshly pressed.
Yet Somewhere
Beneath the fake leather coat, a beetle black cloak;
Beneath The shiny metallic zips, fools gold for pouting lips;
Beneath the glued on nails, as thick and dark as credit cards
Something changes.
But I don’t know what.
Hands hang from sleeves, crisp and cracked as autumn leaves,
Ready to brown and shatter,
A road map of wrinkles clad hands in
Gloves of age, jaundice yellow, a fading, sun stained page.
The golden tint of nicotine daubs her in
Turners soft hazy hues;
Turns her face orange, keeps her veins blue,
And twirling infusions of perfume linger on
Longer after her stop, long after she’s gone.
Tag: writer
18th May Commuter
His greasy green coat glistens like the skin of a wet reptile,
A slippy, gangrenous bath tile,
Tangy as a venus flytrap’s saliva
Sharp as limes, stuck in the mud
Smoking sativa, eyes rosy with bud,
Slumped on the back shelf,
Puffy tunnels lined with filo gargoyles
And melting crenelations. Floating here and there
Lost en route from station to station,
Shifty as twilight, a golden hour caught
In a cat’s eyes at night –
Use your walnuts to polish them bright.
Skipping down, I’ll go out on a limb
And call that skinny moustache a scuff mark on his chinny chin chin,
Flickering like train tracks,
Skittering ripped bin bags in the winny wind wind.
As above, sew below, the ripped
Knee holes blink open and find that they’re blind
Thanks to each awkward shuffle of a restless behind.
May 16th Commuter
I’m staring at a Black watch,
A heavyset onyx rain drop,
Squeezing the veins of a forearm
Riddled with blue worms. Pulsing,
convulsing as the blood pumps under
A knuckle bump.
Slim fit t-shirt the dark grey of a
Burnt out coal lump. Embers remember a
Shadow waking up then slipping off
So Stick it on with soap if it gloats, or
Stick to sewing with thread if in bed and it’s dead.
A tummy rumble,
Squawking brakes
Compete against the train’s grumble.
Ochre shoes sit among the gum and the grime,
A pair of glass slippers preserved in hotdog brine
From which dangles the hypodermic needle
Of a shoelace’s head, the plastic tip is
Feeble and cracked on its deathbed.
Spilling fibers frothy as the mouth of the Tiber
White as the grin smeared across Tony the Tiger.
And he could be much slier
When disguising the dire
Sweat stains that make a
Black shirt turn blacker
Than a burnt egg frittata,
Or the Old El Paso beans in Wahaca,
So Roll on your deo
Cos you’re pungent and
Sweetly sweat lacquered.
Day #27
Horselaugh: A loud boisterous laugh a guffaw
Owlery: An abode or a haunt of owls
Verbarmolto: Italian, “much very”; extremely
—–
The snap, crackle and pop of twigs crushed beneath fleeing feet.
The slow, tentative crack of each and every twig, hypnotic as the pursuer stalks his prey.
Short sharp breaths, ragged as tattered clothes and greedily grasped in the fist of each lung. A salty sheen of sweat, the same brackish patina as glass washed to shore, the feeling of skin being shrink-wrapped as it evaporates. The sling cradling your arm is stained a dirty brown, blood and dirt held in place by a small metallic safety-pin that shines decadently in the dappled light of late afternoon.
The calm, collected oxygen exchange of a seasoned hunter, chest swelling and falling like budding flowers. The wolfish twitch of a nose, nostrils flaring, flooded with the tiny particles that comprise the sense of smell. Eyes taut, framed with prison cell eyelashes, pupils opening like the dark side of the moon. The webbed strap of a gun digs into his shoulder blade leaving a red welt imprinted under his shirt. The inquisitive bloodhound nose of the gun barrel pokes through the undergrowth, probing like a snake’s tongue.
A hollow beneath roots, a momentary bower presenting itself amongst the melted candlewax limbs of a gnarled old oak. The owlery above gushes forth with a sudden cacophony of soft hoots, oddly melodic and soothing, yet a stone cold musical flare. Here you are. Surprise. The horselaugh of your pursuer echoes through the wood, bouncing strangely off the trees. He may have heard the owls, but can he hear the quickening of your pulse?
Adagio…molto adagio…verbarmolto adagio…he edges forward, conducting the orchestra of his senses with the precision of a maestro. Slowly…more slowly….extremely slowly…eyes close like chrysalises and sounds suddenly metamorphose into something tangible; every coo, every hoot, every crackle, every ragged breath, he can hear it all. And now he’s coming for you. Brazen footsteps aren’t hidden anymore and the laughter he lets forth is more and more like the howling of a wolf, calling for his pack.
You hobble forward, uneven footprints left in your wake, full of microscopic scents that deer may sniff at later. The owls subside as the tree fades against the fabric of its cousins, roots entangled in the knots of a family drama. Thick, dry saliva taints every breath, dehydrated like a slug in salt, a spider web of drool that sticks to the roof of your mouth. You trip and fall on something unseen, cursing loudly and silently as the numb buzz of pain hatches in your knee, a yolk of warm blood seeping forth.
The crack of a gun. Shards of bark explode from a nearby tree, wooden mayflies departing at the sign of danger. A second shot, more shards, the noise of the gun buzzing like cicadas in your ear. Breath held. The steady boil of red heat rising in your chest. Not like this, please not like this.
There’s the crack of another bullet. Shards shatter just above your head.
There’s his horselaugh again. Closer now.
There’s the seductive rustle of bushes, the confident snap of a twig. He’s right behind you.
It can’t end, not like this.
Day #25
Sabaeliganism: Same as Sabianism (Middle Eastern religious precursor to Islam)
Gravenstein: A kind of fall apple marked with streaks of deep red and orange and of excellent flavor and quality
Buteonine: relating to or resembling a hawk of the genus Buteo; possessing large powerful hooked beaks for tearing flesh from their prey, strong legs and powerful talons.
—–
A pair of ruby traffic lights entomb the traffic totems in a momentary caesura, exhaust fumes swelling like lactic acid amongst the tyre treads. It’s lunch-time and across the zebra stripe road, a meal deal beckons like the pot of gold at the end of a monochrome rainbow.
The temperature drops as the automatic curtains are pulled back, chills are multiplying, the refrigerators buzz with a dead glow. A Nectar Card toting Indiana Jones perusing rows of sandwiches like the dates on a calendar, their packaging garish and cheap, their innards limp and listless. It’s a hot day and I can feel the curling lip of brown lettuce pulling at my heartstrings.
‘Excuse me.’
An office boy butts in, grabs a BLT, pack of crisps and an Innocent smoothie. He immediately blends back into the crowd, swallowed by a current of quinoa salads and flat-heeled shoes. Too much choice, where’s the little packs of fruit? Apple and grape, Gravenstein and Ruby Romans, Denmark and Japan, an unlikely yet decadent duo. However, I think it’s only Granny Smith slices and little purple marbles. The white tooth of the apple is stained pink.
Around a corner, I wish David Attenborough were here as I watch a woman, buteonine, snare her son with manicured talons, bright pink with white playboy bunnies – Sistine nails. He’s spilled a box of cereal and now he’s spilling tears. Wriggling like a freshly caught fish in his mother’s grasp. ‘And so the cycle of nature continues…’ mumbles Attenborough, eyeing a box of risotto rice that’s currently two-for-one.
‘Bentley! Bentley, now you c’mere! Little shit! What’cha fink yer doin? And where’s yer sister? Mercedes! Mercedes!’
What’s this woman the head of, a family or a car show room? ‘I’ve think I’ve got the wrong program,’ mumbles Attenborough as he joins the back of the self-service queue. He’s gone from my mind by the time I reach the front, not that anything else could be when I hear the sonorous cry of ‘next please!’
Dominic scans then bags my goods and I’m left to my own devices – idle, hifalutin ideas; the sort that wouldn’t fit through a 10-items-or-less lane. Sainsbury’s to Lidl; Jamie Oliver to…well, someone; Islam to Sabaeliganism. Good word. A Wikipedia binge paying dividends.
‘D’you want any cashback?’ asks Dominic, broad chested and dark hair closely shorn.
‘Nah, it’s ok. Wait…no.’
If you don’t have it, you can’t spend it. That’s simple logic. That’s just one of the epiphanies I’ve had whilst tapping my pin code into the little fiscal Ark of the Covenant, fingers lithe as Mozart in the morning. Digits swirl, melt, LEDs expire and resurrect just down the street, little digital abacuses sending messages in Morse, a cacophony of 1’s and 0’s that dictate all and don’t really exist unless we all believe in them. I keep the receipt, just in case.
When I leave the store, bag in hand, receipt in pocket, the midday sun washes over me and I decide this must be how a reptile feels.
Day #3
Iceman: A man who is skilled in traveling upon ice as among glaciers
Desponsage: Betrothal
Hyetograph: A chart or graphic representation of the average distribution of rain over the surface of the earth
—–
Flakes of ice scattered in the wind, like frozen confetti thrown over a newly married bride. The Iceman tested the strength of his pickaxe’s hold, three sharp tugs followed by a pause and then two more. He was always cautious when climbing on glaciers. He’d heard too many stories of people being dragged to their death by a desponsage between their bodyweight and gravity. But not him. He had work to do.
After a climb of several hours, the Iceman was finally approaching the top of a sharp, frozen incline somewhere deep in the wilderness of Montana. Clouds hung heavily above him, as if watching with curiosity. Their dark flanks rumbled territorially and it was clear that a storm was going to break sooner rather than later. The Iceman ripped his pickaxe free, dug the spikes of his shoes a foot higher and smashed the axe back into the ice. He heaved himself up. The movement was almost metronomic now.
A wry grimace flitted across his face, stained desert red from a hidden sun, bleached Siberian white by permafrost. He knew that the thick, thermal suit he wore was keeping him alive, but at the same time he knew that from a distance he must resemble little more than an insect clinging to the side of some giant structure. A woodlouse on bark. Rip, kick, heave, smash, grunt. Tick, tock. Rinse and repeat.
The wind was getting stronger, almost sadistically so and the laminated map that hung around his neck was flapping wildly, a startled bird. He managed to grip it between his teeth, their creamy white somehow purer than the deep blue-white of the glacier, then pulled himself up over the final ridge and onto the top of the icecap. He lay on his back staring up the sky, ragged breath spraying a sea salt mist. Overhead the swirling miasma of darkening cloud boomed a congratulatory note.
Knowing how dangerous a breaking storm could be for anyone in his position, the Iceman pushed himself up, ignoring the silent screams of his aching body. He just had to grab a few core samples for the annual hyetograph and he could leave. It seemed like an awful lot of work for what was essentially a glorified jam jar weather report. No sharpie marker pens to note the rainfall here. He thought of the abseil back down. He enjoyed that part the most – an effortless glide down the back of a ten thousand year old monster.
The Iceman suddenly felt very small again, acutely reminded of his situation: a tiny shellac mosquito, leaching frozen blood from a dinosaur. Hemmed in by the endless snowfield of clouds above. Hemmed in by the frozen ocean beneath his feet. The glacier rippled a strange turquoise colour when the first crackle of lightning erupted.
Day #2
Unbowed : Not bent or arched not bowed down
Papyrine : Imitation parchment made by soaking unsized paper in dilute sulphuric acid
Approving : Expressing approbation commending as an approving smile
—–
It was the perfect plan. Gaston had spent months scouring the archives, memorising the shapes of letters. The curly flourish of a capital ‘R’. The crucifix of a small ‘t’. The endless ouroboros of the letter ‘o’. Of course, he had been helped along the way, spending countless hours alone with nothing but scrolls, the thick stub of a candle and the Pastor, who despite his saintly façade stood to gain as much from Gaston’s plan as the man himself. After all, it never hurt to have the Lord’s backing.
The Pastor, an elderly man whose back was remarkably unbowed despite his age, was a common fixture in the village. Trusted and feared in equal measure by his flock, he was always willing to interpret God’s word in a particular way if the gold coin bent between his teeth. Bent coins always gave way to a cackle and the same old tired joke that it was a ‘special communion wafer’ rather than bribe.
Was it really a bribe though if the word was never mentioned, or was it merely engendering oneself to God’s approving gaze? And therein lay the rub: you had to take the Pastor’s word for what constituted good and evil. If a gold coin slipped between sweaty fingers was acknowledged as good, then so be it.
Gaston worked in the village tannery. He awoke at dawn, made his way to the butcher’s abattoir and collected the previous day’s hides, many still covered in the yesterday’s gore like a bad dream. Over time his nose had become numb to the smell of rotting flesh and he had learnt to tolerate the buzzing of flies, flitting around the freshly deceased like children clamouring for honeyed gingerbread.
By the time the village slowly began to grind to life, Gaston had already trimmed, salted and washed dozens of pelts, then dumped them in the pit to wait until the hair rotted off. He hated the pit. It was filled with a lime and water solution that smelt so sickly sweet it made him gag. Death shouldn’t smell of flowers.
He wasn’t trusted to tan the leather yet, that came upon completing his apprenticeship. But still, the smoke of the furnaces and the faeces that stained the leather often made his eyes water and his throat burn. It was more a punishment than a job. But the rumor kept him going. He had to cling to it.
The Pastor had pitied Gaston, said he had known the boy’s mother before she died giving birth to her only son. The wily old man had even mentioned that Gaston’s mother had moved in prestigious circles, very prestigious indeed, especially before Gaston had been born.
A stolen gold coin later and here they were. Gaston, memorising his letters and then re-writing his own birth certificate. Gaston watching the Pastor gingerly submerge paper into the green tinted acid, the resulting papyrine indistinguishable from real parchment. Gaston hoping to start a new life. The gappy grin of the Pastor flickering like an empty skull above the flicker of a candle.
Day #1
Words defined below, followed by the story.
Comptroler : A controller a public officer whose duty it is to examine certify accounts
Needlecraft: An article or articles created or assembled by needle and thread needlework
Spissitude: The quality or state of being thick, dense, or compact like coagulated blood.
——
When the needle fell to the floor from between thick, clumsy fingers, the Comptroller reclined in his wicker chair. Drumming his fingers on the wooden armrests, a dull ache accompanied each tap, the swollen skin like a spade hitting dry ground. He put his needlecraft on his desk and let out a hearty sigh. Across a thin balsa wood frame was stretched a taut, gauze like piece of cotton. Off-white, as though stained by cigarettes, it was an impractically thin sheet of fabric. But wasn’t that the point, he wondered. Thin thread, thin needle, even thinner canvas. It was all about delicacy. Control.
At the behest of his wife, who was concerned by his ambient tumble through life, he had agreed to take up a hobby. He’d thought long and hard, half-heartedly trying one or two things that had quickly fallen to the wayside, drifting past like tumbleweed. Eventually, she had coerced him to take up needlecraft, reasoning with the weight of experience gained through a long suffering marriage, that he could enjoy it from the comfort of his seat, moving little more than his fingers. He’d agreed that that seemed as good a reason as any. The callouses that quickly developed on the tips of his fingers reminded him of tiny snail shells – tough, impenetrable whorls.
He’d been working on this current piece for hours but like most things associated with innocuous middle-management, he had done so devoid of any real purpose, and as such the black thread coiled limply like a fossilized spider web at the end of unfinished words: ‘HOME SWEE’. He’d finish it later maybe. If not, then perhaps tomorrow.
It had been another quiet day in the office, not that many people had much need the finance department at a municipal park, and being one’s own boss meant priorities could easily be shifted. Who’d notice if the grass were a little long for a week? That was what it did – grow. He yawned, stretched, and cracked his knuckles with pleasure pain, an oxymoronic action.
The sun slumped through the windows, a spissitude of golden syrup that filled the room with lazy warmth, both comforting and tiring. Tiny comets of dust flared to life in the late afternoon, then faded like mayflies. The Comptroller’s eyes half-heartedly closed of their own volition, turgidly closing before flicking open again. Beneath, two bags hung like deflated beach balls.
He felt the seductive pull of sleep draw him in, mesmerised like a snake by an elderly, bearded Indian man in strange clothes. How did they do that? Control snakes with music? His head lolled. The insides of his eyelids were burnt a dull red by the sunlight and as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness the last thing that he saw was the pulsing of strange and unnameable colours. The needle lay on the floor and glinted.
Stories On The Sofa 