a real moment

Your jaw and teeth feel like they are about to explode. You look around. It’s just another party, a party you have attended many times before; boredom that’s been allowed to comfortably nest inside and deprive you of thoughts, same compliance and soulnessness in passive, polite conversations about things that aren’t real. The table by your knees- you could launch it across the room like a cannon ball. It’s not like anyone would stop you – no one ever acknowledges madness. Now, you could have, but you didn’t, lying to yourself that lack of action could be a form of rebellion but you know that it appears only as compliance and submission to the rules of the game. Deflated you leave and walk for hours, your ear hoping to catch at least a whisper from any of the souls that glide past quietly, confined to an imaginary world of their own.

Finally, you make it back to your flat: a concrete one bedroom box that’s too small, with a mortgage that’s too big. All that you needed was your sofa and a bit of stargazing at the concrete sky, you can name all of the constellations of mold and cracks in plaster with your eyes closed, so you close your eyes and dream of the past, where present was real instead of theorized, where noise, and blood, and bits of broken glass, and birds chirping outside at 3 in the morning as you walked back home from a place you can’t recall – it all felt real. You need to feel like that again. You grab the bottle off the coffee table and throw it against the wall. Nothing happens. No sound of the bottle shattering, no explosion, no eruption. The plastic bottle spitefully bounces off the beige wall. You close your eyes to ignore the bottle, the walls, your life. Maybe dreams will be kinder to you, because tomorrow is just another day that’s already been lived a hundred times before.

tribute to gin – part 2

it’s impossible to create an image to grow into when everything looks suspiciously glossy,
shimmering before the windows to the soul.
souls harmoniously working till death, not once thinking to question destination
as their labour never ends.
when hours are clocked in, tick-tock of the clock won’t ever go tock-tick,
it’s mirror face displaying numbered visions of the past.
empty pages in journals turned yellow, forehead is covered in lines,
each line lost to unserved passion for imaginary desires
God has been dead for a while, we murdered him and live on as if nothing changed,
smearing the blood, tainting everything with ourselves.
pen feels heavy, lettered keys disrupt the flow, the voice had been drowned out by howls
of non-conformists choirs.
madness will break out and create hordes of expelled intellectuals with rosaries
in their flaking, broken hands.
laugh at expense of life, dying is expensive and sad, talking is expensive, arguments are expensive,
water is a luxury but sun, air and disease are mostly free.
talk, cry, disown the father, the mother, and the rest, empty the spiritual bank,
shake off soil remaining stuck to uncut roots.
dreams traced from scenes of life turned into shadow possessed nightmares,
from sickness of the spirit refusing to see meaning in autumn leaves.
on the altar lie pieces of a shattered images of boys, one by one disappearing,
devoured by vulturous self-preservation praying on naivety.
disillusioned and now bankrupt hearts look for love in cheap, lonely, crumpled up paperbacks,
stolen in rush off the “on sale” stand.
Sleepless nights emptily spent recounting all unlived morning minutes also lost to emptiness
Crushing down remaining decades to looping yearly routines.

a poem

goodbye to this life,
to destiny,
to grand plans, streaks of luck,
to one night stands,
to cigarettes in the rain,
to holding hands in loneliness,
to falling in love the first time every time and falling out the second sight returns,
to premonitions dissolving before my eyes
beaten out of my dreams with a tyre iron of reality.
there is no more steam,
coal is only a black pebble covered in ash.
the beat,
the beat is dragging,
longer pauses in between each hit rattling the bony cage,
raising like the sea,
growing more and more distant,
dispelling uncertainty with silence too beautiful to transcribe.
Little ants crawl in my head, strings of tiny ant letters putting themselves in order,
pushed tighter,
in sequence of symbols never seen before,
the mirror in water isn’t clear and voices in waves sweetly whisper,
and I gaze and take in the beauty of the horizon armed with teeth of trees hiding rotting branches,
like the dead unchangeable parts of myself.

why trust?

“If you don’t mind me asking, why do you trust me?”
He looked confused for a split second. A micro expression. A man in hi position has to have a good poker face. When anyone asks you such a question mind can go to some strange places, presenting in a flash uncomfortable visions, worries that maybe you shouldn’t have trusted anyone, ever. Like they are about to tell you they have murdered your family and stuffed the body parts they couldn’t immediately eat in your freezer. Or that they drugged you and now you have only moments to react before you stiffened up, but there is no point – you can hear what will happen to you when the lights go out.
“What do you mean?” He asked.
“Well,” I said “we have known each other for a bit, but it’s been mostly based on meeting on street-corners, disappearing in dark alleyways to exchange goods for money to then split as soon as that was done. At what point did you feel I was trustworthy enough to come to your flat?”
His face relaxed a bit, returning back to it’s normal, stoned expression. He thought about it, which in his state must have felt much more difficult than it normally would – you could see it: neurons trying to push their way around his burned out brain, trying to send signals to evoke the right letters and syllables and push them down to his tongue and mouth.
“Well, you are always on time, you don’t ask questions, you get the stuff and I never had to chase you for money”
Frank, candid. So drug dealers invite only upstanding, punctual citizens into their abodes? This all seems reputation is everything nowadays.
“And, you are a tad older. Older people are more reliable. I don’t really trust anyone my age with nothing.”
Double negative. No, leave it.
Never thought I would come across a drug dealer that’s ageist. But at least it’s in my favour. I’m nearly forty years old. Forty years old and hanging out with juvenile druggies. I feel like I need a spliff just to cope with these thoughts, to calm the feelings of a wasted time in life. Is any time wasted? It could be just a bad investment. Not sure if mine is either Just energy placed for not a great deal of output. Like opening a door to slam it shut to open it again, to never actually take a step forward – just standing there and playing with the door- that’s how I live my life. The door is my excuse, the door is my protection, the door keeps me sane whilst driving me crazy at the same time.
“Why are you asking?”
“I’m writing a story about a drug dealer”
“No shit?! Are you going to put me in it?”
“Sure”
Not really.

how will we be

This network-life support that sustains us is evolving; it’s getting more elaborate.
The illusion of independence and autonomy over our lives is replacing the last images of reality. Soon, each will have a cubicle, all needs satisfied, provided for, by the system, as we disintegrate, fall apart from our lonely bodies, escaping inwards, upwards, away from the filth of existence. If you think about it, haircuts and need for coffee are the two of very few things remaining that make us socialise, that make us interact with each other. When that goes we’ll forget how to live with each other, because we won’t have to.

a tribute to gin

A beautiful spread was waiting for us, a dinner party, sophisticats exchanging charming bows.
The dog, at first allowed in the room, was later expelled for chewing one of my shoes.
The owner shouted in a punishing tone ‘go away, bad bear’ – it gave me pause. A thought sprang out. It made sense. The dog is called bear, because it is in fact a bear. This dog’s body is possessed, a home to a strong bear soul.
But, then, it occured to me that I am also the dog and the bear and the word. I jumped on my seat and roared, which was received with laugher and a round of applause. They didn’t understand, that I AM A BEAR.
Clumsily I grabbed honey glazed carrots from the table with my bear paws, and ran on my bear feet to the tree in the garden.
I climbed to the top and roared again, hoping to hear a roar back, but all I got in return was a dog’s bark.
World stopped making sense. The dog was a dog, it wasn’t a bear. I wasn’t either, just a fool stuck on a tree, unable to climb back, mourning the death of all those moments when I didn’t think but was alive.