Life Rears Up Like A Frightened Horse

These are some poems from one of my collections. I present these for you:

Sometimes You Look So Beautiful

it scares me
hounds me in my
night robes of conscience
impregnates my thoughts
contorts the reality.

sometimes you look so beautiful
it pleases me
but still that scare
is on the loose
slipped the noose
hanging from the tallest
spire of inside

ALWAYS YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL
always I am scared.

Crowd Pleaser

I walk cobbled stones and
broken backs of paving slabs.

Feet scuff the concrete
catch heels
tumble.

I attempt to appear nonchalant
but my fluster stands bold
like mosquito bites.

I await the applause.

People walk on by
the crumpled flesh on the floor.

I abhor the sensitivity of robots: if you won't clap at least concern.

Under The Thumb

THEY say
when YOU die
the soul drifts into another world
where no PAIN exists;
no WAR is undertaken;
no CRIME is ever committed.

The Lonely Walk

the road
a conveyor belt travelling backwards
faster than I am walking forwards
car drivers sound their horns pass on by the lonely walker.

the sun beats down
on sweating face
necklace beating against chest
in time with feet
body leaching fluid: too much for t-shirt to drink

road just winds on
in the distance
conveyor belt
feeding faster
the lonely walk
is far from over
the agony of it all just weighs down the besieged.

Rising To The Bottom

Sitting.
Drinking tea with talk-show hosts:
Nutrasweet smiles
watching their weight.
Shaving around glossy moustaches.
Dripping with gold, jewels and bimbos.
Sloshing a Scotch
in the drink
with a chink: the ice,
no slice.

I feel out of place
and wonder how I managed to arrive
from dingy to sickly-
sweet the personality,
sickening the life-
styled out of fashion.

But who cares when
everybody is living
in the medieval torture
of the 21st Century?

I Pretend I Am Dreaming

faces staring
blank
at blank face
with smile
that don't
exist/
i pretend I am dreaming/
i pretend I am dreaming/
i pretend/
it's all a charade/
it's all a pain in my chest/
the mundane tears
playing cards
choosing names
making jokes
no one laughs anymore/
no one laughs when you're a piece
from a different jigsaw/
you don't remember
now you are happy
i can't forget
i feel the cancer spread/
i'm losing weight/
fainting/
pale/
today i counted seven ribs
holding my grief/
tomorrow?
i think i'll shave... in the early morning
just to get around
the words others speak/
hunched on the floor
i'm just a bore
for everyone to ignore
or ridicule/
i lose my temper
when i shouldn't/
it's time to move
but bed is like a
grave i use at night/
i pretend i am dreaming...

Tagged, once again

I've been tagged by Raynwomaan and this story is my fifteen things you didn’t know about my sex life (hey, I don't set the questions). So, for once, this is not (quite) fiction.

The Prime Minister looked over the pieces of paper scattered haphazardly over his leather-bound desk and groaned. One day in the job and this is what it came down to: pushing paper. He wasn't making the major decision he thought he would be nor was he meeting with the leaders of the world, people he'd aspired to meet since he'd first took an interest in politics aged 14. All he was doing was pushing paper.

Oh well, he thought, I might as well make a start. He pulled up the first piece within reach and started to read it. After a second or two, he started to read it again from the beginning. This wasn't the usual ministerial rubbish about budgets and warfare or the proletariat uprising that was (forever) imminent in the country. This was something completely different; personal - in actual fact it was extremely person as it dealt with the Prime Minister's sexual activity.

"It can't hurt to fill it in," he said out loud, plucking a gold pen from the inside pocket of his hand-stitched wool jacket.

It hadn't taken long for the Prime Minister to fill in the questionnaire. He felt good, something had been achieved. The first day in the job and he had already answered questions about being on the job. It wasn't quite what the public thought he should be doing, but if that Cluntin could get his dick sucked in the Round Office then he, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, could take time out to do some light-hearted questionnaire.

As he sat back and reflected on his success (albeit on something he would not want broadcast to the nation) a knock came at the door. He called out and the door opened. A flunky - the Prime Minister tried in vain to recall his name - pushed through the door and took a sharp intake of breath.

"Why, Prime Minister, what are you doing amongst all that paperwork? No, no, no, this simply won't do!" he exclaimed.

"What do you mean?" asked the Prime Minister. "Don't I do paperwork?"

"Of course not!" The flunky was almost incredulous in his tone. "You sign things, sir, meet world leaders, etc, etc. You have a huge team of civil servants that'll take care of all this," he indicated with a sweep of his hand.

"Oh," said the Prime Minister, crestfallen. Suddenly, his minor achievement seemed immaterial.

The flinky gathered up the papers and stuffed them into a folder, which he then held between his arm and body. The Prime Minister almost expected him to salute, but he didn't. Instead, he simply turned on his heel and was out the door.

Several seconds passed until the Prime Minister realised his questionnaire was amongst the papers now stuffed into a folder, carried under the arm of a flunky who's name he didn't know.

-–---–-–-–-–-–-–-–-–

The next morning, it soon became clear that he'd been set up. The questionnaire had been planted, specifically to give the Daily Snail a scoop. They printed up his answers in bold. He groaned again. Prime Minister's questions would be Hell personified. They would ridicule him endlessly. He'd never live it down.

The telephone rang. Another groan was emitted from the Prime Minister's mouth. He didn't really want to answer it, but he couldn't hide away, take a day off. No duvet days for world leaders. A tinge of regret passed over his mind, but the ringing phone brought him back to reality.

"Hello?"
"Prime Minister, this is the Queen. I must say, I read your interview twice. I'm most impressed by your candid nature. I never liked the God-loving one; he also had a fondness for war and idiots with plans to take over the world. I much prefer you. Toodle-pip."

Before he could say anything else, the Queen had hung up. Cradling the phone in his hand, the Prime Minister sat back in his chair and glowed. Now, he welcomed Prime Minister's questions.

Lifting the Daily Snail off his desk, he read through the Q&A session once more, a satisfied look on his face.

-–---–-–-–-–-–-–-–-–

Q&A with the Prime Minister

Q1
How old were you when you lost your virginity? Who was it to? Describe the event.

I was 14 and it was to the daughter of the man I worked for at weekends for extra money. It was a disaster, as these things generally are. Second time was better if not longer.

Q2
What is the strangest place you've had sex?
In a woodland, on a pathway. I was 18 years old at the time.

Q3
Who would you consider 'switching teams' for?
As a Prime Minister, do you think I'd switch teams? Of course, back in the old school days...

Q4
Do you prefer to give or receive?
Give, as long as I get to receive sooner rather than later.

Q5
One night stands - what the protocol? Stay the night or get the Hell outta there?
Never had one. Really.

Q6
Favourite body part/parts of the opposite sex?
Eyes. That alone can make the difference. Not what they look like but what they show.

Q7
Quickie or long and slow?
Depends on a number of variables that I can't go in to here. Suffice to say, whichever is most suited to the time and place.

Q8
Noisy or quiet?
Quiet.

Q9
Ideal amount of sex per week?
At least three times. Preferably more, definitely not less. Right now in my life that is. Ask me again when I'm eighty - do they ask an ex-PM about sex?

Q10
What's your number one sexual turn-off?
Selfishness.

Q11
Number one arousal trigger
That 'look' - you all know the one I mean!

Q12
What constitutes bad sex?
Any that requires cash payment.

Q13
Celebrity you'd most like to shag right now?
None - I don't love any of them.

Q14
Define sexy?
Well, it's not George Bush in spandex, let me tell you! I suggest you try a dictionary.

Q15
Remember the best sex you've had - what made it special?
Knowing I'd never forget it.

Case Solved

"All I can hear is oohs and aahs, Unc."

"That's coz they're fucking each other, you stupid twat. That's why we're 'ere. We need evidence, don't we? Sometimes I wonder what the fuck it is that you're doing 'ere. Gimme those headphones. Muppet.

Julian duly handed over the headphones, his bottom lip quivering slightly. He didn't like upsetting his Uncle Freddie this much, but he hated it when he shouted at him. He hated being cooped up in the back of a van even less, unfortunately it was all part of the job: private detective.

Uncle Freddie was listening intently; Julian wondered what he could be listening to, as all he'd heard was the grunts of what Uncle Freddie termed as 'dirty sex'. The thought made Julian's cock harden with blood. He sat down to disguise it, praying it would go away. Julian didn't know a lot about sex. What he did know was that he wanted to try it.

"Ssssssshhhhhhhhhh!" Uncle Freddie loved to make that sound, even if there was no noise whatsoever. "Right, get the fucking camera, they're oblivious to anyfing and we needs the shots. C'mon, you fucking twat. NOW!"

Julian jumped, his head connected with the metal roof of the van, sending out a dull clang. He was about to let out a cuss, but Julian bit his tongue as he recalled the last time he'd sworn in Uncle Freddie's company. His eye had been swollen for a week. He twisted about, looking everywhere for the camera. He spied it under the front seat and reached forward to collect it. Uncle Freddie was tutting and shaking his head. Julian grabbed the camera as Uncle Freddie swung open the rear door of the van and helpfully pushed him out into the night.

Ladder's on the fucking roof," Uncle Freddie said as he slammed the door shut.

Julian pulled the ladder down, trying hard to make as little sound as possible. The door to the van opened again.

"Don't fergit to take the fucking cap off the lens, awright?" And then Uncle Freddie was gone again.

Julian began to move off towards the imposing Victorian house in front of him. As he moved away he could hear Uncle Freddie talking to himself, a squelching sound of wet flesh coming from the van. Julian didn't really want to take the photos, but he knew from experience that interrupting Uncle Freddie while he was "taking notes" in the van was a bad thing to do. His eye had taken two weeks and he'd needed stitches in his lips. Uncle Freddie had also warned him not to mention that his trousers had fallen down, else Julian might find he went to hospital for a lot longer.

He struggled across the lawn, the ladder in one hand and the camera slung over his shoulder. It was moonlight and it cast a silver sheen across the landscaped gardens. There were many shadows across the front of the house and Julian moved towards them. He placed the ladder against the house and carefully increased its length until it sat just beneath the window sill. Julian tested his weight on the bottom rung.

Confident that the ladder would take his weight, Julian began to climb. His palms sweated as he climbed. Would he get to see real sex? Would he see a naked woman, breasts and everything? Julian hoped so. He wished that Uncle Freddie would let him get them developed, then he could look at the photos before he handed them over. He might even be able to steal one, although Uncle Freddie would probably go ballistic and kill Julian. He'd get copies made instead.

As he climbed up, Julian noticed that the window was open a fraction. He could hear the moans of pleasure clearly as he made his way up the ladder. His palms got really sweaty and he had to stop to dry them on his jeans. Wow, he thought, no one will believe this at school. His hands were shaking as he pulled the lens cap off the camera. It was already set, ready to shoot; so was Julian.

He was crouching close to the top of the ladder, poised. Using his legs, he pushed himself over the window sill and looked through the viewfinder. Julian was transfixed for a number of seconds. He could see a man and a woman on a bed. He was on top. They seemed to be hurting each other. Julian wasn't sure what was happening - it certainly didn't look nice to him. His eyes glazed over a little as the woman moved her arm and he saw her breast clearly, her nipple glistening with the man's spit. Oh my God, Julian said to himself, this is my dream come true.

He took the camera and began to take photos of the couple. Even though he hadn't liked what he'd seen, Julian found himself excited by the images he was shooting. A thought flashed through his head: now I know what Uncle Freddie is doing! He smiled, taking some last shots before deciding he'd had enough.

Just as he was putting the lens cover back on, the woman turned her head towards Julian. She saw him and screamed. Julian looked up, straight into the face of the couple.

"Fucking Hell, it's Aunt Gloria," he said

Julian heard the thump from the van as the roof connected with Uncle Freddie's head.

Beginnings

Adam and I lay on our backs in the long grass behind the farm sheds. It's hot, summer has come at last after the seemingly never-ending April rains and we're taking advantage of it. The morning has been spent running around, chasing the chickens and geese, until father shouted at us, threatening to put us to work turning manure. We'd careered around some more, meandering our way back to the farmhouse for refreshments; greeted by mother, scolding the grass stains on our knees and trying her level best to keep us in the cool of the kitchen so we could help her with chores. Gulping lemonade and throwing water on our red faces we retreated as fast as we could back out into the sun. We'd been too exhausted to keep running and had flopped down in the shady grass.

I point out a dog shape in the clouds and we spend another hour making as many shapes out of the clouds as we can. It's one of our favourite games. We also like hide and seek or climbing the hay bales. Father counsels us not to climb there, as he knows of deaths past where children have been caught in an avalanche of hay; at best limbs get broken, disabilities inflicted. We ignore him, of course. Adam says we'd never be stupid enough to get caught dying in a hay bale storm. Even so, I haven't actually been out to the barn this year. Neither has Adam. Coincidence.

Adam is my cousin. He's a little older than me, but only by two years. He's just left school, no qualifications. Doesn't need any to take over his father's business, he says. We've played on our farm since we were small (knee-high to a grasshopper, as Uncle Derek says). Adam is probably one of my best friends. I trust him. I glance a sideways look as Adam points out yet another shape in the sky. I see his arm pressed against his head, his profile half in shadow. I see the slight crookedness to his nose, the fullness of his lips and the indentation in his chin from the time he fell against the stone steps aged five. His scars give him gravitas, in my eyes. (I learned the word, gravitas, in Ms Gearson's English class yesterday and I've wanted to use it since then.)

A fly settles on the end of his nose and he flicks at it with his left hand, brushing against my hip as he does so. I feel a tingle through my skin, my breath shallow. The fly passes off to bother something else. I shade my eyes from the sun and look carefully at Adam. His chest rises and falls as he speaks, as each breath provides the life before me. I see the tanned skin of his chest; a few blond hairs dot the landscape down to his sternum, a further light fuzz disappearing under his shirt. I lick my lips, mouth suddenly dry.

Adam looks up at me, his face a question. I look away, feel myself blush. The quizzical look remains on Adam's face. I shove him and jump to my feet, giggles emitting from my throat. He lies back but I am ready to run, ready to be chased. I want Adam to chase me, to grapple with me, pin me to the ground. I want his sturdy legs to constrict, in a pincer movement; I want his hands to grasp my wrists and push them above my head. I want to be blinded by the sun and have his face provide some shade. I want to feel his lips graze against mine.

But he doesn't move. Adam continues to lay there, still. His breathing calm now. I realise he's asleep. I collapse next to him, lay my head on his chest and curl up with his arm across me. I wonder what shape we make for the birds to look down upon as I drift into unconsciousness.

Park

I watched Katherine swing back and forth in the park, Michael's strong arms making her fly higher with each push, her shriek causing the birds to rise as a flock, a black cloud of wings. A warm feeling passed through my body, a consequence of the love I felt for them both: my husband and my baby.

I pulled the scarf tighter around my neck to stop the winter wind chilling my chest, the hat already slumped on my head like an insolent child on a chair in a dentist's reception area. The snow had melted and the sun was reaching its arms to the ground, but the bare limbs of the trees made it clear that Spring was still a distant mirage. Katherine shrieked again as the swing's chains went momentarily slack - her body weight pulling it back down to earth. Stop, she said. Michael let the swing slow. He waved at me. I returned his wave.

There were other children on the roundabout - the merry-go-round as we used to call in. Years ago, I played here. The swings were different, there were no locks on the gates; dog shit was everywhere, we watched our step; now bins are scattered about, signs implore dog owners to clear up mess these pets make. The park is populated by people carrying plastic bags and pulling faces as they bend forward, walking towards bins with arms held away from the body, hands waving in front of noses or fingers holding nostrils closed.

Of course, the trees are bigger, higher - some fell in the great storms of '87 and there are gaps now in the perimeter. Little else has changed over the past 15 years. Goal posts have been erected, wood chips placed under the children's swings and the dismantling of the climbing frame. Not much else.

I watch Katherine climb steps, sit down at the top of the slide. I see Michael at the end of the slide, waiting to catch her. Katherine's skirt billows as she begins her descent. She shrieks again and the birds lift off and answer her squawk. She is having fun, even in the cold. I like to see her happy. I know she'll be sad one day.

One day, when Mummy isn't here.

Michael tells me not to be morbid, not to think about after the event. I can't. It's all I can think about. Should we tell her, should we wait until the inevitable happens? This is what amounts for our time together: discussions about burial, about wills, about epitaphs, about hymns.

I answer: I want to be cremated, my ashes scattered in the park, this park. I don't want epitaphs, I don't want hymns. I don't want a solemn occasion. It's not me. It's not fair on those that are left. Michael sighs. I can sense the tears almost cresting his lower lids. I know he thinks it's selfish, but I didn't ask for this to happen.

He'll leave me alone on the subject for a day or two and then the questions start again.

I watch Katherine as she mounts the slide for one more go. Michael turns and waves. I return his wave. I hope he can't see me crying from where he stands. I don't want him to see me crying.

The Book

Jeremy spotted Myra approaching him. He spied her through the gap in the books. He was in the Metal work section; not many other people went there, it was quiet and Jerermy knew he could remain undisturbed for hours should he want to spend time on his own. He could hide and no one would know where he was. He quickly scanned the shelves, but his eye did not fall on the spine he needed to locate. It was here somewhere, he'd read about it. He estimated that he had about ten seconds before Myra was with him.

He looked up. There was no way he could mistake her awkward gait for anyone else, the churning of her upper body as spindly legs struggled to keep her considerable frame upright while in motion. Her jaundiced skin - a result of spending too much time in the basement sorting index cards for the library's Dewey system - glowed buttercup yellow under the sodium lamps; the way it ebbed and flowed as she walked was almost hypnotic. Jeremy wondered what would happen if the curtain material holding all that flesh in were unleashed. A feeling of sickness washed over Jeremy. He gagged, Myra almost upon him.

"Are you taking any books out?" She spoke the question accompanied by a volley of spittle.

Jeremy reached into his inside pocket and immediately his hand felt the handle of the knife brush his fingers. In one swift movement he had it out and was maniacally stabbing Myra in the chest. Blood spurted everywhere; her last words a gurgle as the life drained out of Myra and spread across the carpet tiles, lapping against Jeremy's shoes.

"I'm just looking," Jeremy said, his eyes on his shoes. "I'm looking for something specific." He brought his gaze up to look straight into Myra's eyes. In his head he was wiping clean an imaginary blade.

Myra wrinkled her nose at him, as if she could detect a smell that brought about thoughts of voiding bowels.

"Well, we can't house people all day, you've been here for three hours - not to mention the fact that this is the tenth day in a row that you've been here and not taken a book out. Other people want to read these books, too. Perhaps I can help?"

Jeremy stuttered. The book in his hands felt heavy. He'd never been in a library before where visitors were questioned as to the reasons they were there. It wasn't as if he was reading the papers for free, like most of the old people in the area - especially the ones that had already been banned from the newsagents. Myra just continued to glare at him.

"I'm leaving now," Jeremy mumbled. He handed Myra the book and pushed past her, picking up the pace as he got closer to the door.

Once outside, Jeremy cursed himself for his failure to complete the task he'd set out to do that morning. He could see Myra pushing her cart around the library, picking up books from the table where people had discarded them and replacing them on the correct place on the shelves. He had to get back in there, had to find the one book he wanted. The only problem was Myra. She was a big problem.

The next day Jeremy was back, shuffling around the shelves. It was dark in the library, the lights were off at such an early hour. Jeremy had snuck back in as they were closing last night, hidden himself amongst the farthest shelves and waited. He'd spent all night searching, but still he hadn't found anything. Admittedly, he'd spent an inordinate amount of time in the biology section reading about reproduction, tissue at the ready. His thoughts kept moving to Myra and he lost the urge to masturbate. He'd even failed at man's most basic instinct - could it get any worse?

A glance at his watch told Jeremy he only had an hour left until Myra came in for work. At that time he'd have to secrete himself somewhere, perhaps in the reference library. Later he could come out and pretend to have only just come in. He needed that book. His job was on the line without it. There was just one row left and then he'd know that every shelf had been checked.

At that precise moment, Jeremy's eyes settled on the exact book he wanted.

"Yessssssss," he let out with a hiss. "Just what I was looking for."

He danced a jig of glee, like a child that's just been told they can have whatever they want in the sweet shop. With light steps Jeremy hunkered down in the remote corner, book open in his hands and a demented smile on his face. Myra will be surprised, he thought to himself. Oh yes should would.

Provoking Thought

When you're old
and I'm swinging on the angel's star

I'll come back and kiss you.

Love's Blind

Good morning, Roni. How are you today?

I don't know where I am. I can't see anything around me.

And why is that, Roni?

I'm blind.

What can you tell me about how you came to lose your sight? What memories do you have?

Been like that since I was five years old. Weed killer and eyes don't mix. And, I've also learned the hard way that bleach is not the best thing to wash them out with should you find yourself with weed killer in your eyes. At five years old, maybe you'd be like me and reach for the nearest clear liquid. Perhaps you wouldn't have allowed your older sister to pour weed killer in your eyes in the first place.

How do you feel about your sister? Can you describe how she makes you feel? In your own words and your own time, please

I adored her, my sister. I can literally say I would have done anything for her. I live with that every day. Yet, I have no regrets.

Thank you, Roni. That concludes our session for today.

––––––––––––

I know where I find myself isn't very big in terms of space. I'm enclosed by four walls, brick, rough. Gouges littering the surfaces of those walls; names, dates, simple messages and many downward strokes to count time passed. It feels like a prison. I don't know if it is. I can't see anything around me. I'm blind.

If I am in prison, it'll be because of Veronica. Roni, she liked being called. Spelled it just like that: RONI. In Braille, that's



It was the first word I learned in Braille after I lost my sight. I would've done anything for Roni, whatever she'd ask of me. Every time. It must have driven our parents out of their minds. Roni often said they were "losing it", which would always make me giggle.

I run my fingers over the scars around my eyes and sniff in the stale air. A strange odour. A scent that can't be described in terms of perfumes, but more likely described with stench/sewer/faeces/shit/rank/corrosive. Ammonia. Somewhere in this room is an open toilet. It most likely doesn't have a flush. I can judge all that with my nose. It's highly tuned now. There are other smells, mingling like cocktail party crowds. Sweat, blood, a hint of oranges. I can pick up the aroma of chicken roasting. Perhaps it's on the lunch menu.

This smell makes me hungry. I try to remember when I last ate something. Roni would've made me a sandwich last night before bed. I couldn't sleep without leaving something out to eat during the night. It would've been peanut butter and raspberry jam on brown bread. No butter. I like my bread dry.

I step sideways and my shins connect with a metal rod. I suck in my breath, hold it until the pain subsides. I reach down, fumbling. My hands touch cloth. Denim. Heavyweight. I don't know what colour they are, but they smell of the sweat and blood. There is wetness on them. Bringing my finger to my nose I can ascertain it's blood. Definitely. I know that smell. Memories flood my head. Blood. Definitely blood.

I can smell chicken being roasted and wonder if that's what we're eating for lunch. Perhaps it's on the menu.

I scratch Roni's name on the wall, in Braille. All in lower case.



The blood on my hands makes the pen slip as I try to dig it into the plaster. Dust. The wall is crumbling. I don't think anyone will be able to read Braille anyway, so I don't worry that it probably looks messy. That's the way the cookie crumbles.

I know it's there.

I stop; cock my head to one side. I hear footsteps; they are not close but I feel the vibrations of the floor and I can hear the slap of leather on polished tile. Are they coming for me, I wonder? I move back to the metal shelf and reach down again. I find a blanket, it is dry. I think it's a bed. There is a body lying on the bed, the shelf. It doesn't move. The smell of blood and sweat is strong. I recall things now.

I am in prison. Of course I am. Clarity.

The day is clear to me. The lounge of the house was immaculate; I was sitting on the settee, watching television and eating biscuits, with Roni. I could hear the sound of the vacuum cleaner, the drone and whine. Mother, ever the cleaner. Roni was passing me the biscuits, each cleanly snapped in half so I was able to dunk them in my tea. I liked it. Sometimes I wouldn't drink the tea – I'd simply make a cup so I could submerge my favourite biscuits into the hot liquid and feel the soggy remnants of a biscuit melt over my tongue.

I had no idea, not until Mother came in and shouted. Crumbs, everywhere. Roni whispered into my ear, pressed the poker from the fire in my hand. She spoke to me, told me I must do it. I heard the vacuum come closer, its hum and whine drilling into my skull. I can remember the smell of blood from that day. Roni said I'd done well. She said I'd made her proud.

I'm in a prison. I've scratched Roni's name on the wall. I can smell chicken being roasted, perhaps that will be served for lunch. Roni says that I can have two helpings if I want and there will be gravy. Roni tells me everything.

I can hear the footsteps closer now. A faint squeak as the heel pronates on each step. I don't have long, they are coming for me. Roni tells me. I must hide the evidence, she says.

I move to the shelf, the bed. I reach down and feel the blanket. Pulling hard I am able to release it from underneath the body. I grab corners, throwing it up and forward, just like Roni says to. I let it drift over the corpse and stand so that it cannot be easily seen from the door. I start to sweat. I run my fingers over the scars around my eyes.

The footsteps stop outside my door. Keys inserted; the scrape of metal on metal. Clunk it turns.

Yes, Roni, I'm glad I've made you proud again. I've scratched your name on the wall, in Braille.

It looks like this:

Change: A Monologue

Hi blog visitor,
This is perhaps the most requested page on my site. Which is great.

However, I've noticed some of the words being used by other people. A lot. So the post has now been removed. There was a time when I let it go out to people, but the requests are now too much.

Anyway, to give you an idea of what was here, I'll post the intro...

Why not finish off the story yourself?

[See the young girl holding a sign. It reads: Homeless, hungry, but human.]

Spare some change, please? For a cup of tea? To redecorate my living room?

Of course, I live on the streets. I don't have a room to live in. I don't live: I survive. My name's Mary, not that I expect you to remember. Mary Mary, quite contrary. Yeah, right. I never liked nursery rhymes, don't teach you nothing about life and you can't eat them. My Dad reckoned you could teach kids better things, like the back of a hand. Why? Beats me. Ha-fucking-ha.

That's why I came to London, about three years ago now; bunked the fare on the train; came looking for adventure. I certainly got what I wanted - an adventure.

Of course, I see you pass by all the time. Like most, you fumble in your pocket for coins, find only paper. I recognise faces, see. To you, I probably look like all the others, indistinguishable from the rest of the faces caked with the shit of the city. Do you think I'm a - what's the word? - dosser? Or beggar? A professional one, not a scrounger. I ain't got kids, you can't label me a scrounger.

I'm sort of in-between jobs.

[to read more, please contact me at the email address on my profile. Thanks]

Excerpts

These pomes are from a collection called 'The Ramblings of a Long-hand Typist'.

The theme of this collection was loneliness and impending death. They are old, circa 1997. I think.

Don't It Just Get You Down?

The son-of-a-bitch screamed at me from behind the glass counter.

"Hey, Gypsy. You gonna pay for
that or just look at it like you don't
know what to do with it?"

I placed the toilet roll back down on the dusty shelf
and headed for the exit.

No one needs a shit that bad.

Least of all, me.

--

If You Sit In A Room Too Long You Begin To Consume Yourself

from the inside out/
start at the bottom
work up/

most butts
are better public
speakers because
the mouth has learned
to lie/


scratch your head
or
pick your nose/
wipe your skin
with
fresh but dirty clothes/

release me
release me
parole/

I have paid my dues
chewed the news and
spit out views/

you don't understand
how long the room has
enclosed
supposed?

not enough/

Feels like a coffin
a coughing/
choking
splutter

a gutter
from which I
can't be pulled/

my legs have gone
consumed from the
inside out

fake a smile/
and pray:

that makes it all purposeful/

purpose: fool.

--

Away

As the sun
washes the horizon

as the ground
succumbs to
its embrace

my boat of thoughts prepares to sail.

The things left
behind cry as I
go away.

As the leaves
turn from green
to brown;

as the clouds shed
their tears.

I travel onwards
through the oceans
of belief

the gulls up
above are chasing
me away.

The fires burning
deep within

the rain pours
from the flooded heavens

the ground
sweats the stench
of armageddon.

I am shipwrecked
on a bed of nails.

are you satisfied?

--

Life Is Just Another Misspelt Horror

1.

It is all going to fade away
the day, the night, the light
upon which we all depend.

2.

The letters pile beneath
my feet as I spy through the
letterbox at the outside world.

I talk to myself: what do you do?

3.

Carriers of disease sink into my
room bringing songs of bastards
and saints...

They're all the same: saints and bastards.

And my glass is refuelled.

4.

My lungs fill with smoke
and I cough across the
back of my hand and
remember the Parisian
streets and how, when it
rained, they reminded me
of Venice.

It is so peculiar.

5.

Nothing more to say
The bed is cold
now
and the planet is
dying

6.

I, too, wait for death.

--

The Ramblings of a Long-hand Typist

sleep a little in the day smoking forest fires; tupperware
parties for thin, lost housewives in superficial daytime
television true-to-life bullshit. ashtray overflows: the only
other butt I touch apart from my own. the day is slow the pain
is slower; little do we know it's creeping up fast to take us
on the next bend. a hairpin sticks into the sole of my foot
but I don't own it
screamscreamscream
there is nothing wrong?
who are you trying to kid senseless beauty?

nothing flows now the
river has bled into the sea: the drought causes dehydration in the monsoon. the years are now unseasoned foods; the throat clenches; fist; on water that dare to replenish.

sometimes mad; sometimes funny.

always incoherent.

--

Flutter

I turn away
to spit out
the loneliness
but the wind
blows it back
into my hands.

Listing Again

Job interview. Room, oversized and occupied by a leather-bound desk, two men (both dressed in immaculate black pin-striped suits) and three chairs. Paintings – what look like museum pieces – litter the walls, hung in a higgledy-piggledy fashion. Clumsy. No one says a word.

I smile, nervously fiddle with my tie. They motion, both of them, with hands, fingers splayed towards the chair nearest to me. I notice the carpet then, a swirling pattern that, if placed on a paving slab by a pub could be mistaken for a pool of congealing vomit. No one says a word.

I sit, thankful to take the weight off my feet and to give the spinning world a chance to calm down and synchronise with my head. I breath, deeply. They smile, show teeth yellow and irregular. I return a dazzle at them, wondering if I have lettuce stuck in my teeth. Does my breath smell of coffee? Cigarettes? Last night's alcohol? No one says a word.

And they come, pouring forth like floodwaters, like molten lava over a village: the questions.

1. Why did you apply?


2. Where do you see yourself in 10 years?


3. What aspects of your last job did you dislike and why?


4. Three words to describe yourself


5. What's the biggest team you've led to date?

I feel like I'm seeing things sideways. I'm listing. Panic sets in, stomach acid burns my throat and I struggle to speak. Epiglottis flapping, like I'm choking. I breath, calm. No one says a word.

I answer the questions. I answer them all, diligently.

It's now a case of waiting and seeing what comes of it.

Part 5 - Final Resting Place

Part 1 can be found here

There's very little left now. Of the house. Small amounts of evidence: the shadows on the hill, demarcating the walls; the well-worn path leading from the spot that was once the back door; the wood pile over to the left. The grass in this area is thick. The sheep stay away. Everyone stays away now.

There are no others that I can take, infect. No Ellens, no Maureens.

There's very little left, but you can discern where it stood, once majestic - now dubbed a house of horrors. Media representation skewed. Schism; some residents in the town didn't want to believe, others could not refute the evidence mounting up. Responsibility was sought. Only twenty or so years had passed. Could people be traced that far back? Press conferences, questions. Constant. Like the rain. There were never any answers. Soon other news took over, became more important. Missing dogs, burglaries. Local school threatened with closure.

There were no complaints when the bulldozers droned into town. It happened so quickly. Even with the rain, it was a speedy demolition. In the morning there was a house, by evening this space. Back to as it had been twenty-three years ago; bare and naked. Lorries piled high with the bones of the house, the red brick skeleton broken into pieces. Over a week they toiled. Then, there was very little left. It had taken that long to remove my body, too.

Things have been laid to rest. Not forgotten. That can't happen now. This story will remain, this evidence of what occurred. There's very little left now. Tiny traces of confirmation, substantiation. The wood pile, rotting. The shadows, defining where walls once stood. A single pink rose, placed in the middle of those shadows. The final resting place.

I have that now.

The rain starts to thin. The clouds separate, disconnect. The sun licks at the open wound of blue sky. I am at peace.

My ghost, quiet. I accept.

The End

Part 4 - The Discovery

Part 1 can be found here

Mysterious deaths. Font bold, 36 point. Times New Roman. Hard to ignore. Mysterious. Deaths. Richard folded the newspaper open, ripped pages out. Twisted mouth. Glaring, a focus in his eyes. He fed each page to the fire. Flames and emotions roared. Only the fire died quickly. Wracked by sobs, back pumping, heaving uncontrollably. Maureen had been number three.

The rain continued to piss down.
––
How quickly the early summer had filled with heat. Moving day, faint scent of honeysuckle at the gate. The breeze nuzzled, but was not enough to cool the temperature . Air as thick as cold custard; as stifling as parents.

Removal men remarked on nothing. Lifted, carried, lifted. Carried. Sweat, blue veins standing out at the temples and arms of each man as he struggled. A grunt, call for rest, a reassessment of gaps and weight distribution. They did the job they were being paid for admirably and without complaint. Later, on the drive to the new house they would bitch about Richard. Hated his lack of help, loathed his offers of tea he then forgot to make. All very convenient, they would say to their boss.

Richard and Maureen rounded up the cats; two of them, both grey, both fat - contentment and old age joining forces to broaden stomachs. Mewling in arms, pusheunceremoniouslyly and somewhat ignominiously into cages, in full view of the patient removal men.

All packed up. Done. A quick spring clean around the house. One last look around. Forgotten nothing. Removal van hummed, shaking from side-to-side as engine ticked over. They want to get on, want time for lunch. Shot arrows of hate from their eyes at Richard, as if he were the dog owner who'd allowed his pet to shit on the path just so they would step in it.

The first spots of the rain that would mark the day they moved began to fall.
––
Richard howled, the pain so intense. Loss was a burden, the terrain it created difficult to traverse. He slammed fists into walls, feet at doors; ripping the house apart. Selling it was the wrong thing to do. It needed to be gone. Razed to the ground. Extinction. The rain got harder, stinging shots against glass, the sound like a million buzzing flies. The fire dead in the grate.

Plaster fell, soft in his hands. Digging at walls. A keening cry, mouth emitting between weeping. Face: snot tears anger. Hands smashing, pushing out hatred for what was once a place to call home, a shelter from the bad things.

There had been another death, years back. Almost twenty years ago. Not long after the house had been erected, settled in to the earth. No memory of those days now, only available at the local library. Mr Abbot; he was never a buyer. Previous owner. Yes, he'd fled, run, the proverbial wind behind him. He knew about the disease that had riddled Maureen, seen it. First-hand. He'd fled. Out, into the blasted rain. Constant.

Loose bricks shifted, collapsed. Richard didn't stop. Clawed. Finger nails plugged with dust. Caked. The rain continued to piss down . Hands blindly pulling. Catching on something, not brick. Richard pauses, listening; neck kinked and eyebrow raised. He wants to hear what his fingers grasp. To hear the voice, the story. Deeper, excavating, hands pulling at bricks. There she was, held with brittle hessian. There was the reason for the deaths.

The rain continued to piss down. A steady stream.

Concludes here

Part 3 - Walls Have Secrets

Part 1 can be found here

A muffled scream. Snatched. Bundled with sack shielding eyes painful and wide, wet with unknown horrors, with fear. Large hands, how many pairs? Unsure. Difficult to tell. A muffled scream. The smell of oil, musty cloths stained with brake fluid. Sharp edges from toolboxes stab, rough knots of rope chafe. It's dark beneath the makeshift hood.

I lie still. Little Lisa. Everyone wishing me a Happy Birthday, just this morning. There's a party later. Friends visiting. Balloons, jelly and ice cream. Party games. I'll be the centre of attention - where I belong. Defined: precocious, cocky, sassy. Yes, I've got attitude. Mother refers to it as advanced, bright, developed. I use the term mature, prefer it. Suits me best. I imagine my mother later: running in a panic about the neighbourhood. My little girl. Crying out. Bringing people out from their homes, away from their TV dinners, their soap operas; it would give their meaningless lives some purpose. They could feel thankful it wasn't their daughter. Their son. Thankful.

A muffled scream. Snatched. I'm 10-years old. I'm every parents' worst nightmare.

I lie still, my breathing shallow. A sour tang of petrol fills my lungs. Vibrations shake, stir me from shock. A vehicle. A muffled scream. Realisation hits home. Snatched. I've read about girls - girls just like me - and what happens. They never come back. Ever. Only the shells that hold them return, dead or alive. The most popular way to return is dead. The thought causes my bladder to fail.

I kick my legs, a scream muffled as my arms flail. Survival instincts. The car stops, engine cut. I'm hoisted, removed. Voices, conversation, decisions made. Dragged, stones tearing cloth, my flesh. I feel blood trickle down my calves, over my foot. I try to count them. Two, three men at most. They laugh, poke at me, their fingers cast from steel. Baiting me, their prey. I'm dropped. Through a small rip in the sack, I espy my resting place. A house, so red, so vivid. The sun is bright. Framed with green hills dotted with bleating sheep. I glance at wheelbarrows, scaffold, bricks in piles. Then, dragged into gloom.

Oh God, I think. Instincts scream: No. Please. Begging. A muffled scream. No, please. Don't. Hands, pulling, wrenching me out from beneath the sack. My eyes painful and wide, wet with unknown horrors, with fear. Little Lisa. Me. I'm precocious, but even my imagination can't predict the terrors that await. Stinging urine on chapped thighs. I've lost a sock, my foot is cold. I wonder. I wonder what is coming. Dread fills me, drips from pores. They can smell it. They laugh at me. And then it begins.

It is dark when the men are finished, spent. It's done. Without discussion they begin work. Quickly, methodically. It takes no time to cover the body, to hide it. Secreted away. They work under moonlit sky, the roof not yet completed. Hard drops of rain fall. Splitching sounds on the cement floor, doinks on the metal wheelbarrow. Tuneless; the rain tone deaf.

Conveniently, tracks are erased. Every thing disappears. Eventually. Even little Lisa. Twenty years from now, she'll be forgotten. Little Lisa won't like that.

Continued here...

Part 2 - The Photo

Part 1 can be found here

Ellen, laughing. The sound gurgling. Like the stream behind the house. She looked so beautiful, the way the sun glinted off her auburn hair. She was with me. How lucky could I get? Was I taking chances beyond what was fair in this world? At that moment in my life I hadn't a care in the world.

Abby, she called. Said my nickname as if it were honey on her lips. Never used my given name: Gregory. Abbot. Held my hand as if it were the most precious thing she would ever touch. We were in love. This was to be our home. Setting: a scattering of undulating hills - nature's grassy breasts suckled by sheep - set back, framing the house. Blue abyss: sky. Clouds like a reflection of the sheep. Russet bricks, bright red roof. The house had seemed to sparkle that day.

A flash. A laugh, the sound gurgling. Look, look! A cry, she came running to me, camera dangling, bumping against hip. Left arm flapping at the wrist. Mouth, wide in a smile. Eyes as bright as the sunshine. Abby: look! There it was, held as if it were fragile: our child; a photo of the house.

Somehow, she'd managed to capture the essence of the day on celluloid. It's the snapshot I bring to mind when I hear her name. It's the only memory I can rely on no. I miss the house. I miss Ellen. One day I will return. Maybe.

It was difficult to pinpoint the exact moment, the nanosecond it happened. At first nothing seemed to change. We fell into an easy life, together. Dreamed of children, bigger houses, better lives earning more money. We did what was expected of us, of people in our day. We lived for those dreams. Laughing, the sound gurgling. Like the stream behind the house.

And then, there it was, impossible to ignore. Had it been waiting, biding its time? Picking its moment to maximum impact? Even now the doctors are unsure. They gave it a name: Invasive ductal carcinoma, layman's terms: breast cancer. We had a name for it, too: death.

Seemed everyone we met said the same: there can't always be a reason, evidence, conviction. These things just happen. Empty words, meaningless. Fluff. That autumn, when the rain came. It seemed to mark the beginning of the end.

It continued to piss with rain. Gurgling like the stream behind the house. Like Ellen's laugh.

I took up smoking when she passed away. Months I'd watched her waste away, drift on an ocean of pain. I was as helpless as she. I wanted to die, to be with her. Smoking seemed to be the best way, I wanted to be stained. Suicide had never been a consideration for me. For Ellen it just never occurred. Her body was killing her. Death was coming. Inevitable, we both knew. Knowledge didn't make it any easier. It felt as if we were the only people experiencing this. How selfish of us.

I wouldn't change that. It kept us sane.

I still have the photo; it still looks as fresh now as it did all those years ago, the day we moved in. The happiest day of my life. The sun has eclipsed now, there is only rain. My thoughts wander to the house, to what it would be like now, in the present. Bricks, pitted with age, hail, water. Eroded like my memories. Much replaced, no doubt. It may even have been demolished. No one could afford houses that big now, not in that area. Run down through economic slumps, unemployment, crime. Only the countryside kept the region popular. In the summer months. Would the photo betray what I held in my mind?

I'd soon find out. I was to visit. A call came, my lawyer. The house was for sale, was I interested? Some things had changed: a new porch (he called it a monstrosity); the gardens were smaller; the house had aged and needed repairs. I think he said TLC. I had to look the abbreviation up. Only then did I understand it was only just repairable. Lawyers=sarcastic about sentimentality.

I accepted the offer, wanted to go back. Wanted to see it again. Just once. That would be enough. Enough to recall her laugh, recall the gurgling sound, see the stream behind the back of the house. I wanted to remember her beauty, the flash of her auburn hair. I wanted to remember back when I felt lucky. Back when I didn't have a care in the world. It was as lucky as I was ever going to get.

I wondered - what other ghosts would need to be laid to rest? I'd been informed of one thing: the rain continues to piss down.

Continued here...

Part 1 - Home Sweet Home

There it is. On the left. The house. Cowering beneath slate grey skies, the red brick blush of the roof set stark against the colourless backdrop of hills. The photo held tightly by nicotine yellow fingers shows the hills to be green. It was taken on another day. Taken long ago when the sun last shone. The rain continued to piss down, a steady stream. He would have to get drenched if he was to get a closer look at it.

Fuck: that he'd left his umbrella on the train; that his hat was still lying on the bench outside that cafe. He'd left abruptly as the rain swept in on the broom of a twisting eddy. Hadn't paid his bill. Embarrassment preventing the retrieval.

Meter's running mate. A voice, rough with age and cigarettes. Hand - callus, knotted - held out. Waiting.

Seven. Just a number. No denominations, no naming of the currency. Just a number. Fumbling for coins, notes, all spilling on the back seat. Tutting from the front. Fuck again. The rain continued to piss down.

Minutes later he was sheltering beneath the bulbous porch - a damned monstrosity, his lawyer had called it. But it was exactly what he wanted, had been looking for far and wide for years, decades. For ever. He breathed easy, turned to knock on the solid oak door. Patterns weaved through the grain, like lives through history. It reminded him of the taxi driver's hand. Spellbound, he stared at the door.

Stepped back, surprised, as the door opened, even though he'd known it would be. He was expected. His knock would not have come as a shock. The house was on the market, after all. The owner was in, the estate agent had said so. Assured him. The rain continued to piss down. A stream of water cascaded from a broken gutter clattered on the metal lid of the bin nestled against the house to the right-hand side of the front porch. That would have to be fixed. Another entry on the mental list he was making.

I'm Richard. Hand extended, offered. Taken and shook, Richard with some vigour. You must be Mr Abbot? Head, nod; lips, smile. Richard suggests a drink - so's we can start in the kitchen, it's the best room in the house. Richard is the guide. This way, this door, that passageway. Arms directing flow. The house seemed to be deeper than it looked from the outside. It loomed even more so. Despite the cracks in the plaster, despite the brown patches on the ceiling from the water damage. Despite everything, he thought. He: Mr Abbot, prospective buyer. That's what he was to Richard Franklin.

Richard. Franklin. He thought the names suited, so much better than his own: Gregory. Abbot. He sounded religious, pious even. At best he was agnostic, at worst heretical.

He caught a glimpse, mirror displaying profile: slack hair matted to tight, high forehead; patchy coat, dripping puddles, shivering against body; pale lips and sallow skin splashed liberally with raindrops. A slight growth of beard. This way. He was brought out of his trance. The mirror reflecting doorway again.

They were in the kitchen now. He sat at the breakfast bar while Richard pottered about, preparing tea for two. Biscuits? Sugar? Milk? He said no to them all. No thank you. Manners mattered most.

The rain continued to piss down. Coat steamed on radiator. Shivered. The tea welcome, the perfect introduction to warmth.

As Abbot had expected from looking at the decaying exterior, the house required extensive work. Plaster crumbled, ghostly white powder covering the floor; dawdling motes only disturbed by movement and breath. It gave many rooms a winter wonderland feeling. It made him feel sick. Coughed. Sneezed. They came back down the grandiose staircase; sweeping, cantilevered wooden architectural beauty. The only thing worth rescuing, he thought.

Tour complete, back in the kitchen. Time for Richard to answer some questions. Abbot needed to know certain things. He licked his lips, eyes diverting to the floor, hands in and out of pockets. He found these scenarios difficult. After all, there had been stories circulating. The taxi driver clammed up when he discovered that he hadn't known all the facts. Not my place to say. Head, shook; mouth, turned down.

Simple enough. Ask. Why are you leaving? Just that one question. He'll be honest, he'll explain. Perhaps it's a scandal, village gossips pointing, whispering, snickering? Perhaps perhaps perhaps. It comes out, blurted. Uncontrollable, the floodgates open, pouring, gushing. He felt embarrassment, he felt the shock. The question reverberated, struggled as it hung.

And then it came out, Richard spilled his secret. His reason. For there is only one reason he can't wait to move. Abbot needed to know certain things; in the end they all would.

The door, flung open. The rain continued to piss down. Umbrella, hat, embarrassment, all forgotten. He won't be buying. No money exchanged. The colour of the kitchen tiles had been too red. He'd known, suspected at the very least. It's why the taxi driver had stopped talking, become reticent to engage in conversation. It answered a lot of questions for Mr Abbot.

Richard watched him rush down the road. Another one. He knew the agent would call and offer to do the viewings. He couldn't be trusted to keep his mouth shut, to keep quiet. Maybe someone was trying to tell him something? Was he meant to stay? Was that his punishment?

Continued here...

Confession

I know you've been there, out back beyond the lake. I saw you, watched you.

I was sitting in the thicket. Over to the left. Remember looking over? I thought I'd been discovered. Had you noticed me, I wouldn't be here now, retelling this story again for the benefit of those nice people in suits. You'd have killed me, too.

[Keep the story, ma'am]

...beyond the lake, where the sun sets. Deep reds bleed into the blue, wisps of cloud sponging up the colour as if they were balls of cotton wool. That's where you'll find the hut.

I was sitting in the thicket, hiding, secreting myself. Over to the left. He saw me (points finger at accused), but he must've thought I was a dog or some other animal. He stared. I held my breath. The thicket was enough to prevent me being seen. He turned away, I sucked in some air.

I stayed sitting there in the dust, just breathing deeply. The door on that hut was no match for a boot from Mr Cartwright. He's a big man. I was scared. I stayed where I was. He was cursing, too. Loudly.

I can't repeat what he said

[For the rest of the court, the statement reads use of the f-word and the c-word, I'm sure you good people don't need no other details? You may continue, ma'am]

He was cursing and kicking up some dust. The sun was getting low, shadows longer than you are tall, sir. I was blinded for a moment, 'til that sun dipped below the pitch. That's when I knew he'd done something bad. He was dragging out a sack. It looked mighty heavy, real tough to move. I estimate that it had a weight of a hundred fifty pound, at least. Big, it was. I was sitting in dust, hiding in that thicket. I was scared.

And that's when I ran. Course, he must've saw me. He was shouting - not cursing, mind, but calling out to me. But I didn't stop. No way. I seen what he did.

[And is that when you went to the police, ma'am?]

Oh yes, no hesitation.

[Thank you, ma'am. No further questions]

Can I get down now?

[No, Mr. Charleson here would like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind?]

Well...

[That's rhetorical, Miss, Miss...]

Fairbright, sir. I told the police everything I saw, what I just repeated here for the court.

[Yes. However, I would like to know a little bit more about how you came to be in that thicket. You've admitted yourself that it's a strange place to find someone, but yet there you are. Sitting, as you say, in the, er, dust. Hmm?]

Well...

[Not only that, you seem to be able to assess weight almost perfectly, as if you'd read the report, or perhaps you're clairvoyant? On the other hand, perhaps you know how much effort it takes to move a body weighting (checks paperwork) approximately 150lbs? Can you enlighten us, ma'am?]

I often go out there, to sit. That hut used to belong to my father, 'fore his farm was taken away from him, 'fore he was forced to beg for food. 'Fore he died. I like to go sit there, remember old times, good times. Ain't no law against it.

I don't know nothing about that weight thing. I was just lucky in guessing that amount, I suppose. It was him that done it (points finger at accused again, thrusting out finger in jabbing motion).

[Then, Miss Fairbright, perhaps you can tell us why your fingerprints are on (turns around, reaches for plastic bag) Exhibit 437. A six-inch kitchen knife. The blood matches the victim. Well, Miss Fairbright, what do you say?]

Miss Guided

I bite down on my hand to quell the shrieks congregating in my throat, like teenage girls out shopping on a Saturday afternoon. Bile burns, cough hacks. Tears tumble out, my only drink for hours now. How much longer?

I bite down hard on my hand to stop the shakes that flash through my body. I can see the camera, mounted on the wall. It's recording me, this event. Will I live to watch it back?

Hands clasp my shoulders, nails digging. Flesh, the slapping of his movements. I concentrate on the swirls in the carpet. I put together the details of my surroundings: the red and ochre cloth of the makeshift curtains; the peach colour of the wood inlay on the wardrobe; the flecks of green dotted through the bedspread - the one I chose from that department store in town.

I bite down hard on my hand. I feel the scarf wrap around my neck. It tickles as it spreads, like tendrils of a plant. Tight in an instant, breath imprisoned in my lungs. I concentrate on the swirls in the carpet. Flesh slaps, bile burns. Cough hacks.

I bite down hard on my hand and suddenly it's over. I break down, weeping. My tears mixing with the blood snaking down my arm. My teeth are red. My look, horror. And then the cloth, warm water trickles to the small of my back, showering over my quivering hips and the crevice between my cheeks. Soothing. A hand runs over me, gently washing away the brutality of earlier.

I turn, kiss the lips of Oliver, murmur words of love.

I hold out my hand, bandages securing my blood beneath my skin. I kiss the lips of Oliver, let him wash me, clean me.

We've been together four years, for years. Years, we've been together. So long it seems like for ever. I love him.

Oliver stops the video. Speaks: something for the archives.

I kiss the lips of Oliver. I love him.

He says he loves me.

Untitled

I

Piece by piece
the strands snap and we're left to
spiral
out of control
hurtling
destination unknown.

The Shackles
are removed, but an
anchor is
desperately
needed

on the deck
to stop us from drifting
where the waters are
deepest

II

four letters
three words

III

there was a time today where I felt like crawling inside my skin, rooting out

the endless

need

for someone to be near me
touching
just that simple thing:

touching my skin

and then it passed.
just
like
that

IV

too few words to say how I feel
not enough time to show it