End Up

End up in the same place. A cheap pub selling stale beer. Taking it off the brewers hands, presumably. Would be a shame to waste it. And it’s not waste. Almost, but not yet. Everyone knows, too. But, instead of letting a small fact like that get in the way, they order another drink of piss.

The dark, I don’t mind. It’s the chill that gets me. And right into the marrow too.

Although, it didn’t vex me this earliner on my walk in the country. I felt, for the first time, that I was stood upon a planet of no significance. Of course, we are meant to feel certain ways about our environment, I understand that. But, single-minded self-preservation aside, I felt, breifly, the sublime indifference of the Earth.

Not to mention the fathomless space beyond it. The blackness, for argument’s sake, is the one true father. The entity, the nothing that drives us to invent Gods. To invent a world that drives us ga-ga. Until we, finally, rot into the sodden Earth which, itself, merely exists to be blown to smithereens by the tremendous death rattle of the Sun.

No, the only true father, or true God, doesn’t give two penny’s worth about anything you do. Probably is you. The same thing that makes you smile, dance, cum, bleed, cancerate and rot. The one true father.

And beyond the fiery body of destructive life, all there is is blackness. Emptiness. Time between events. And I scurry inside the pub as though I were a premature child, aching for the warmth of the womb.

I think to myself, ‘where is the fire?’

Perhaps I feel it on my face and decide, simply, to turn away and stand in the cold like a barren tree.

Smoking.

Drinking.

Hardly living.

It’s miserable.

Yet it’s honest. An honest defeat. I wave the white flag, if that’s the fashion for surrender. If I could be bothered to get a flag, or care about its colour, yes, I’d wave it. But the look on my face, really, ought to be enough.

Is this how I will continue?

And one day, as an old man, I’ll look across the pub and see myself. He’ll look at me as though he didn’t mean to. He’ll understand but will not comprehend. He’ll glance over again, like a flash. And he’ll be wondering to himself, ‘Is that how I’ll end up?’

The Sound of Blood

He grabbed the barrel and balanced himself.
The blood was pouring from his ear. I spat some whiskey in there. He laughed.
And threw the messy, bloody tissue away. It landed in the ashtray and caught fire. Smelled like burnt, cheap bacon.
The blood wasn’t stopping either. He poked a finger in the ear. Licked off the booze and blood.
Still, the blood came.
He raised his eyes and pressed the burning end of his cigarette in there.
Asked me if I wanted another drink and left.
I sat amongst the copulating cats and tried to read a tabloid.
A woman laid in a pile of leaves and crossed herself over and over again. I nodded to a bouncer, who was, in fact, just a head case who’d wandered in off the street. He snatched her up in a screaming heap and bundled out.
I scratched my ear.
Then the blood came.
I lit up.

Two Trappists

I might have taken a walk in the country. Anyway, I ended up there.
Came to surrounded by trees and the smell of animal droppings. Various.
A flame licked out of a hole in the ground and then it was gone. Maybe it wasn’t there in the first place. I don’t know.
Fast twitching feeling in my fist.
Next, I’m chewing on the bird. Waxy feathers, snapping bones and pops of blood; tough, stringy sinew and blobs of tasteless fat.
Then I’m tossing them in, one after the next.
When I’m full, I feel sick and think about vomiting.
Realise that if I do, I won’t stop. Imagine looking down at a spittly, slimy pile of feathers and flesh.
I gag.
There is a pub on the corner of a road that wasn’t there before. A replacement for the birdsong; distant murmurs accompanied by clattering glasses. The odd laugh.
Mostly, all I hear are the branches fighting for my head.

Spend the rest of the afternoon drinking with a woman who, by rights, ought to be dead.
I know her, but she’s not alive anymore and yet, there she sat, smoking and drinking like billy-o.
She tapped the budgerigars cages on her way to the toilets and cackled.
“Get the drinks in, you old bastard,” she aimed at the roof, at me, “I’m dry as a cuttlefish bone.”
Then she flashed one, young eye.
“Two Trappists.” I say.
“Right you are.” the publican answered.

Funny Fat

Find myself sitting in the car. Slowly, I’m steaming the windows up. That time of year. Everything on its way out.
Reading war poems. Likewise.
I see a giant climbing the stile to disappear into the woods in a blink. How, I don’t know.
Nor did his dog. It ran into the road and then it, too, vanished.

The car seat all the way back now. And my feet up on the dashboard. I’d draw what I see, but it would look like diarrhoea, anti gravity, black ink.
Would make sense. But who needs sense?
Certainly not that kind of sense.

The giant rips into the biggest tree. I’m looking at him through binoculars. He is clumsy. Like a baby. Funny how fat has that effect on the body.
Also, he has earphones in.
He raises one arm, blocking out some of the pathetic sun, and jabs a branch into the earth.
I chew on a dry ciabatta and consider the orange juice (from concentrate).

My phone lights up in my hand.
‘We need to look at this mess. It’s everywhere.’
I roll a cigarette instead.
As I puff, my heart makes itself known.
As I turn the page, the headstone man complains about how the war overseas is affecting business at home.
I shut the book.
The sun has gone.
But the colossus baby man is still there.
I flick the cig out of the window and it lands in his bellybutton.
Cradled amongst the fluff and hair like a dirty, brown paper candle.
Serve him right.
They have to learn.

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.”