22 Feb 2016

5 by 5

The sun that had been burning for 4 days straight finally succumbed to grey cloud and rumble of an oncoming storm. Lightning had flashed the previous night, cutting the London sky every few minutes, striking wherever it may. Now it’s Wednesday. The worst day. I’ve always said if the world’s to end, it’ll be 3pm on a Wednesday. The middle time. Nothing going on, just inbetween everything that just happened and anything about to happen. For now, 9am is the start of nothing for me. I sit at work, waiting to go home. Waiting for I don’t know what. Watching out the window at girls walking past, silk skirts and long hair breezing silently across the high window, and then away. Soon the vans will come, the deliveries will start. The voices will grow louder and get closer and closer to me. By midday the noise will become white, unbearable. And it’ll be all I can do to remain calm and to quiet myself. There have been times - more and more - when I know if I open my mouth it’ll be all teeth and cursing.  Wednesday. The sky still threatening. The people sleep and talk at the same time, a remarkable talent that makes me want to reach down their throat and pull out their vocal cords. It seems again the summer sun has increased testosterone and decreased intelligence. All that blood meant for the brain running straight to the cock. And that’s all fine. Natural, physical. Whatever - just don’t talk to me. I have left in my wake, Friday people, Sunday night girls and Saturday night drinking buddies…. All now ghosts. Here I am floating in Wednesday morning between everything that has happened, and anything about to, and as ever thinking only of coffee. Coffee that I’m going to get right now. 

(This is an old peice written over ten years ago that I thought good enough to post.)


15 Feb 2016

Card shark

The night is lost
Though the world carries on oblivious
The daytime inches closer
And closer to the throne
With each sunrise
Washing the streets clean of any trace
Of prevailing darkness

The nights are lost
The sickness and thrill
The blackened rainbows
Of oil slicked roads
And bourbon tongue
Are lost
It is fruit juice not blood or teeth
That now fills the throat

I blame the children
So many ankle-biters running circles
Around sober adults once high
On the flame of the July sunset
Blind from the flash of the 8am washout
The beauty of ignorance and shame
And disgust in every mirror

Even the puddles reflecting back confusion
On the cursed walk home in the fading
Narcosis of summer raindrops

The nights are lost
And so with them
Goes the need to lie
To embrace and kill
To palm that last ace 
The very things you need
To just get through the days intact.