Telephone Book

Three times in a week?
That’s the truth of it though, I can’t lie. He’d been in the area for a while, that I knew. Never thought he’d contact me again, especially not in the way he did.
Where was I?
Think it had something to do with an underground room, I can’t be sure. Recently, my memory hasn’t been all that.
I’d set up a glass of water and a nasal spray, just in case. Decided I’d ring them, let them know what was happening. Then I decided not to. Then I thought, well; better just to get it over with. Had to happen at some point. Now was that point.
Looked around the room for a telephone book. Didn’t have their number; in all likelihood, it had been changed many times over the years.
Looked about the room for the telephone book. Then there he was. An old finger pointed towards a bookshelf with the directory on it.
I blinked.
It started to rain.
I wasn’t sure if it was even him.

The 2nd Round

It’s wonderful to see. It’s wonderful. What he carries around with him is almost unintelligable. A kind of glow. A glow that shoots a man into oblivion. Across the world, in the world, somewhere, poverty is cancelled by the actions of one man.
What it means I’ve no idea. Nonetheless, it happened.

No Zone

Woke up this morning, found my friends had gone.
I sang along with the morning chorus. Argued with my feet for not keeping a straight line. Challenged them to walk straight.
Walk straight fuckers!
Then I realise that the birds know more than me, or at least they seem to. Their song is the air, is the trees, is every cell in me.
What are friends anyway? An attachment. A self selected shrine to your own ill-percieved sense of worth.
Shit.
There is nothing. There is nothing.
We clamber around in a soup of murder, insanity and illusion.
We are not important.
And the need for importance is more telling than the belief. Strike it.
Like a match.
Until the black death comes.

Nothing Changes

End up in bed or on the sofa and it’s later, maybe a day or week later and I haven’t moved an inch and I can’t crap either.

I black out. Just, ‘phoom’ and I’m out.

My head becomes a room. Grey walls. Dusty floorboards. Some rubbish. No breeze.

An apparition of an old woman swims into the room. Seems distorted by heat shimmer. It sits in a wicker chair. Black wicca chair. It’s phlegmatic hands begin to shake. They appear blurred with movement. Small stars grow in space.

A voice says, “You’re a miserable bastard. What’s the matter, constipated? Miserable bastard. Nothing changes with you does it? Nothing changes.”