Fear (The Daily Mail)

Thou shalt not assume that any man over the age of thirty that plays with a child that is not his own is a pedophile: some people are just nice

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On my way home, I passed a little girl in the street with a stuff animal, a bear I believe, that she held tight like she was holding her to the ground. She was crying and between sobs and tears, it was revealed she had lost her mummy. And for a split second, I wasn’t sure if I should help and stay: too scared of what the Daily Mail would say, that I might be seen through the infinite eye of the tabloid telescope. Pictures printed with out of context words, horrible and inaccurate slurs.

 

lost time.

Trying to force myself to write…not sure if I am happy with this, but here goes I suppose.

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Sitting on the shore, watching the masts and smoke of ships on the horizon, and I notice the incoming tide, waiting for the salt wash grey reflection of a clouded sky to embrace me. Sometimes I hope that I might float off with nothing save a notepad, pen, some shades and a bottle of whiskey, to that edenic desert island I found one day, but somehow forgot to mention. The water would be blue there, and maybe you’d find me one day, with your crescent moon smile, your fiery hair blown across your face, and you’d be carrying a pile of interesting books and a new bottle of cheap wine because the whiskey would be long gone by then, that we might drink and be drunk under the stars and name the constellations, anew.

maybe one day i’ll take your hand in mine
so that we might go in search of our lost time.

maybe.

 

hypoxia

there’s a darkness in this room, out the corner of your eye, something i don’t want to witness, stuck on the far side of something so intense and sacred, something beyond my age, you mention, wide eyed with kitten smile.

i see it in my mind; this isn’t a love scene, this is a crime scene waiting to happen, my blade gleaming in the moonlight sun.   heavy breathing, heavier by my hand on your neck, your lack of oxygen, your red face and tearful eyes, your orgasm, your flushed, goose-bumped skin, hiding this strange way you’re wired, strange fires that burn deep, not passion but more in the fashion of stubbing cigarettes out on your arm and hoping it feels good; some strange kind of kick that i just don’t get, some limit i don’t want to test. beautiful and precarious, no air from the neck up, i guess you’re fucked up in your head.

i’ll never understand this dark desire, this gentle art of choking that you call love.

 

waterproof shoes

Through the crack in the window, I hear the sounds of the universe; the jazz, the footsteps, the articulation of movement. The man on the street, with a his heart at his feet, overdraft papers and deficit thoughts, weeps, at the sheer horror of it all; both the young, the old: the penniless artist trying to break the mould, who turns his mind from the subject at hand, to the flip side, the snide sardonism of the back of his mind. all these dreams could well be diamonds in the rough, but the best ones are all made of this stuff; and with the best of intentions and the most tenuous of plans, we walk off from the edge and free-fall for miles and miles surrounded by a curtain of ink and no foreseeable end, so i’m scared but if you wanna be fearless, then that’s something you choose: but when i try and walk on water, i’m taking waterproof shoes.

and i don’t care for hip hop, hasselhoff, or the sound of the bomb, the king kong rage of islam and the boogie man on the television, because i am too lost in the genome of a stream of ideas that will be full flesh and bone, give it an hour or two, but all along i look out of the window, and know that i will get nothing done today.

 

winds of change.

help me, i’m alive, give me a healthy heavy drink of reality, with a chaser of oxygen. you’re all tears and slurs, your chest beating like a frightened animal, i find myself alongside yourself in this time and place arranged, i look into your eyes, the sun rises in the background and i am greeted by morning breeze that runs chills through my 3am bed hair. please be tomorrow, a crack of dawn and morning sunrise fills through the cracks in the window, our house on the sand,  and i stand there naked begging ‘please be the winds of change, please be the winds of change.’ we’re just blown downstream, we’re just holding hands, we’re just chasing dreams, but you’re drunk and smell of cigarettes and next week you won’t want to be a part of this adventure, you’re just a brief infatuation, you’re just a scent in the wind. i leave you covered in a blanket on the sofa.

 

re-post; neon drunk mess.

so i am now editing pieces of writing for my creative writing portfolio due in a week or so’s time. feedback is very much appreciated as this is very harshly marked.

—-

The wild neon of the night bleeds out into midnight streets, and crazy cats like you and I dance on the hot tin roofs of the gutter while passers by stumble forward sideways anyways in spiral shapes, and leave vomit graffiti on the walls. The kids like energetic spirits wander the streets drunk high, from club to house to club to his to hers to morning, casting off their watches to enjoy the briefness of Eternity for an evening, and like children with souls in Eden dance like their souls are filled with helium, thinking in innocence, acting in experience. Up in the distance, the drunk choir of the taxi rank, pilgrims from places all over bargaining passage from this blurry scene, their song partially hidden by tinnitus: my ringing ears, my hearing damage. The girls in short dresses, bare shoulders and open cleavage stand shivering in the full moon cold, some wrapped around their man for the evening and they some of them hope he calls after the morning after, not like the others who left them naked, high and dry. A drunken fight breaks out – no-one knows why; fists and feet, arms and legs, go flying like in some crazy dance and before long the lurid blue of sirens colour the scene: the people on the pavement cannot believe what they see, their eyes popping out of their sockets like chocolate from vending machines. On the pavement is someone’s blood, bronze in the teasing of the now dusk light.

Sometimes I just want to drink alone.

 

 

closeness.

against cold porcelin white of the plaster wall, or in morning warmth of a steaming shower, nought left but kiss-red-lips and used sheets, the shine of salt-sweet-sweat in your rapturous hair, with hands in my back and your kiss on the lips. the smell of closeness, intimacy, skin to skin is the only way forward, as sunlight creeps through cracks in bedroom curtains and covers thrown to the floor due to the heat, the room all gasps and moans, iloveyous and iwantyous..

…panting and

heavy breathing

like the room is full of steam, after a long run all sweaty, hot and high on dopomine and endorphins, your curves on my tongue and lips, my teeth gently in your skin, grazing and nibbling, right now i’m all fingers and tongues, we are melting in eachother’s touch.

we’d be merely blunt instruments, but this is the beauty of intimacy. head on my chest, telling eachother secrets of the night, i stroke your hair and you fall asleep, your words becoming dreamier and longer, echoing in ethereal reverbaration, your hand on my side, another on my breast.

 

neon drunk mess

back in lectures and seminars; this means i will be posting work from my creative writing course again. spec this week was ‘microfiction’. for those of you that don’t know, microfiction is somewhere between poetry and prose, but both of those, at the same time. as such it’s a bit difficult to define…i’ve dabbled in it before but here is a recent piece. we’re moving onto poetry soon (eeeek!) so i’ll be posting some god awful poetry soon.

———

The wild neon of the night bleeds out into midnight streets, and crazy cats like you and I dance on the hot tin roofs of the gutter while passers by stumble forward sideways anyways in spiral shapes, and leave vomit graffiti on the walls. Up in the distance, the drunk choir of the taxi rank, pilgrims from places varied bargaining passage from this blurry scene, their song partially hidden by my ringing ears, my hearing damage. The girls in short dresses, bare shoulders and open cleavage stand shivering in the full moon cold, some wrapped around their man for the evening and they some of them hope he calls after the morning after, not like the others who left them naked, high and dry. A drunken fight breaks out – no-one knows why; fists and feet, arms and legs, go flying like in some crazy dance and before long the lurid blue of sirens colour the scene. On the pavement is someone’s blood.

Sometimes I just want to drink alone.