the chz Podcast Episode 9

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.)

 

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

Cheat

Steal

To embrace and kill

To palm that last ace 

The very things you need

To just get through the days intact.

Six hundred

The rules governing ones

Own behaviour

And how they obstruct happiness…

The very definition of

Getting in your own way

It is better to be like water, I know

But most days I

Desire so badly to be the brick wall

I can taste the grit and plaster on my

Tongue

And while mass stupidity is rife

In my immediate environment

-          A hamster wheel of idiots

One dropping out, only

To be replaced without delay

By another replica dummy

This is my every week, and

On the weekends snow no longer falls

While the countryside drowns

Meanwhile they build up this town like 

MEGA CITY ONE

Soon to have underground engines added

Blasting the whole population skyward

All this

And the rising sea

And the great depression

And World War 3

And the death of the Sumatran tiger

And the only thing on my mind

Is whether or not eating 600 bananas a year

Is too many

I swear to god…