Cheers

I pressed the copper washer into his grubby paw. I think he said “cheers”. I don’t know.

There is wonder in desperation. At the suggestion of some macroscopic slither of reality veering away from an assumed course, there can be found the magic once believed lost forever.
A man singing across the Thames. A three legged cat. Climbing fallen trees. The pretty women that sing our hearts lullaby.
Then the death of belief. Of hope. The freedom of the real, tangible oblivion. The womb of the universe; chaotic at first glance, yet ordered beyond fathom.

Grappling Tide

A thick mist of the inevitable. Lost minds clogged the lungs. A strand of junk thoughts messed with my mind. Memories of curves, of sensuality. Craziness from the centre of the universe. Longing. Laughter. A sombre day, spiked with possibility. The ghosts of 10 million soldiers marching across the tundra. Ragged uniforms. The muffled sound of military song. The clomping of tired boots through the shopping mall. The modern church of the damned. Me. You. We.
Notes left on lamp posts. Homeless postmen playing penny whistles. A friend coated in a suit of armour. The lost vessels of a long forgotten sea battle. The invisible waves running through my knees.
Mighty river, I would love to be like you.

Splinters

The hollow stomach gurgles with rage. The day is blunt. Blood glugs brown around the twitching veins. A bloody mess of a mind. The brain reminds itself of the possibility of suicide. Muscles relax. Endorphins rush. A sigh from that cold bastard called space. The pinprick stabs in the fabric of the universe. Endless wine. Endless hangover. Soul death for eighty three years. And even the animals have now packed up and disappeared.
I found a tuft of badger hair stuck to a snapped stick. I knealt with it in my hand and wept. I jammed the sharp end into my forearm until the muscle showed through.
And spent the evening picking out endorphin soaked splinters with a beaming smile.

Trail

Fields of beheaded flowers greet the eye of the mourning traveller. He smelled of stale wine and expensive cologne. The sky was livid pink. Aeroplanes had cut up the still slumbering clouds.
The dog was weary. It had been carrying its master for several miles. But this was normal. And the animal was close to the end anyway. It, unlike its master, had a sober grasp on its own mortality.
Both man and beast wore silver whiskers and kept their lonely souls company by whistling at the mysterious night sky.
Neither were happy. Neither were sad. Inevitability was a staunch component of both’s madness.
And in the evil morning, with the thick paws leaving a dying trail in the winter rain, a guttural grown seeped from the comatose man.
As the man snores, the animal dreams of ways to destroy them both.

Time Zip

Time zipped closed upon me. The past two years shrank to a murmur. Memories of arrival flashed back. The view over the sea. The bottle of Grouse on the window ledge; the light turning it a deep, humming gold. And the potent amber liquid, like a weight, pulling my frantic soul into the depths of happy oblivion. The screen flickers with old, beautiful faces.
Sitting upon the new carpet, the smell of fresh emulsion paint mixing with the fumes of booze.
Tears rolled down my face. As they cooled, a sense of euphoria overcame me. Peering up at the world from the bottom of my well, colours deepened, cut through with blades of gold.
I rolled around on the carpet, marking my scent like a stray dog.
In a star shape, a tumbler of whiskey on one hand, I conducted the music of the spheres with one listless, joyous finger.
My phantom tail patted the fresh carpet in time with my sluggish heartbeat.

Half Love

Silver rainsickles hammered down like the javelins of some demented god. I flipped him the finger, sat down on the grass and opened my book.

*    *    *

“He appears to be stationary. More accurately, he’s just sitting there. Some kind of pamphlet in his mitts. A ruck-sack. He appears weather-beaten. Deafiant though. Damned defiant. And no beard growth at all. Just recieved a text: apparently he smells of freshly landered linen. The bars are melting. His time has come. Taking something from his pocket now. A cigarette lighter it would appear.”

*    *    *

Dear Sir or Madam,

The body was found a few minutes walk from the beach house. We believe this was his intended destination. Although no banned machinery was found we decided to err on the side of caution and take the target down.

*    *    *

She took the letter and tried to cut herself with its perfect edge.

*    *    *

The paper felt her moist, rich warmth. Then the flames licked it black and, finally, to ash.