The C43H68N12O12S2 Nightmare Made Flesh and Filbert

Drearily, I open my eyes. The world is different. Many pieces have shifted upon the board. The scratches, some of rust, others of blood, fight for territory amongst the spattered pools of oxytocin rich milk.
The ghost of an old dog, my old dog, myself, perhaps, washes its genitals whilst blocking out the sun. As though a phantasm of Goya had spread his brushes out for the first time in one hundred and eighty-five years. The glow from his candle hat preserving the night as shelter against the bitter cold chimeras of a shattered mind.
Those salmon, Francisco…They are more real than the one I just ate; than the millions in the sea, than my own heart beat.
A sandstorm engulfs the dog, leaving his gigantic (the dead are one hundred times larger without life) head poking out of a fresh, mountainous sand dune; at the foot of which cigarette butts multiply with my consternation, like flies to a leaking cadaver.



(Shocking day. Only three, drab colours outside: flesh tint – bauble – cadaver. Snuggle down on the knife edge…make yourself look presentable…think of her, he says to himself. Inhale the smoke, let it waft over the hole where the tooth used to be. Feel the deep sting. If it says 24 hours on the pamphlet, then 24 hours it is. This pain is normal. After all, they say so and they have qualifications.)

Gorgeous George lick his lips before diving into the pool of dreams. He frolics there until delirious. His dripping body brings down buildings. From the outer ionosphere, the planet is heard to crack. The kind of sound that seems to slice between the two halves of the brain. ‘Chocolate milk, chocolate milk, drink it all away with the chocolate milk.’ Then spend mystery currency on a neon whore. Rain the notes over her body. When she blinks, so does the light in the room. Small vehicles beep each other. The smell of the market is picking up. Men and women try on costumes. He stares down at himself: mostly charity shop clothes, mostly charity shop thoughts; platitudes that gouge out his soul. The light fabrics draped across the many, unknown surfaces begin to undulate in the breeze. Her tummy draws in as she takes a deep breath. The ribs emerge starkly beneath the neon. ‘Want me to close a window babe?’ She asks. ‘You’re the one whose cold…’ he says, putting out the cigarette on his hand. ‘Oh, god! Doesn’t that hurt?’ He folds more of the notes into paper aeroplanes and aims them between her legs. She lays there, bored, while he does this. Voices rise up from the street. ‘No, just leave it there.’ ‘Okay, yeah. But no more of the other ones, we can’t take them. It’s not up to me.’ ‘Ham and fries and pineapple smoothies, come one ladies, come on gents.’ ‘Just look it up in doodle…’ He wonders doesn’t it annoy her, all the empty babble. No, it doesn’t, she says. ‘Do you want to do it or not?’ she says. ‘We are doing it.’ he says. He says he doesn’t want to be alone. Funny, she says, funny how our desires can be so different. The is a mirror opposite him. The reds and oranges inside the room manage to make him look healthy. Though he sees that he has shaved badly. He reached into his pocket and gave her a few more of the bills. She looked up at him not knowing exactly what that meant. Then he walked out.

On his way down the grimy, black stairs he slipped a couple of times on something. Then he walked around the market. Young men and women were dressed as each other and were shrieking with delight. A young girl grabbed him, shouted a name. Then almost threw him away upon realising her mistake. Then she saw the money bulging from his pocket. ‘Only joking,’  she says.

The whore flew her jet pack in a beautiful evening dress. She watched below as they devoured the man and took his money. she laughed. Poor soul, she thought. And, still tingling from a night’s toil, sought the empty plains outside the city. The heliotrope hued sky clawed into the black rock beneath. A few dots moved at speed towards a vehicle. From the east, a mountainous simoom devoured the desert.

She was found weeks later. Her body leathern and twisted around devastated metal and splintered rock. Next to her was a large sign made of fibreboard.


Let it Rain, Let it Rain, Let it Rain

Cold arse rain. Deep in the chill factor, the blushed faced boy grins, not happy-like, into the whipping water. Summon the demons of the black time. Yeah, well, they say we’re the most depressed in the world. We, as though ‘we’ are all component parts of the same disaster. But I see some sad folks. Some screamed through megaphone fabrics and other let their faces sink into their skulls. You, news, you don’t fool me. What next: ‘Rain is Wet’? And will it make it seem more real, more wet, worse than before? It may.
But then only that you, Mr. News, told us what’s what and that’ll make it all the fouler. Like you’ve stamped something evil upon every drop. The people, well, who knows? And who can say and still maintain that they are a humble assemblage of limbs and wants and hopes. Whoops, the hope dream.
I’m going back out into the rain. And it will be a simple rain. Only weather. I won’t worry about what you’ll call it tomorrow, or in a few seconds time. And who wouldn’t want to fly away, above the heavy clouds, anyway what with your unending sermon of catastrophe. This hymn of disappointment may itself even be responsible for the congregation of clouds above the gray checked surface. But the people will take it; with a scowl, but they will take it. We will soldier on. And we need all the help we can get. But if we are miserable, let us be miserable. At least it’s pure, not tampered with. In my eyes, mixed with rain and tears (ecstatic tears, mind you) the world looks like a smeared fireworks display; crammed with the noises of controlled explosions; from larynx to ear drum; internal combustion to setting sun; the stratospheric cataract that bares no grudge. You’ll stick to your story. I know what’s what. And you know what?
I’ll stick with the rain.

Under the Spark Machine

Sticks in piles. Did you see that? Wine drips from sleeves and shelves laden with pickled things: books, limbs, vegetables, badges, certificates, eyes. Yes, indeed. I imitate and burn. Flay off the skin, there is nothing underneath maybe. Who knows? If you pick up a lighter, no, let’s make sure, a blowtorch. Like so. And turn on the gas. A simple spark. Aiming the bright end at the flesh. Yow, it pops and fizzles. I’ll try it out. See how I get on. Fly it upon the next warm eddy. Catch a bird of prey on a Sunday. Trap it in a room made of mirrors. Create the perfect weapon. A spiritual scream through decades. Three. A dead church surrounded by a cloud of birds. Speakers poking through clouds. Piped music from the ionosphere. Sounds reflections of good and vile dreams. When I didn’t want to wake. The chill ram-rodding the temples, cooling the blood. Brain frozen and unable to leap at the thought of the morning.

But the night. All blood-red and weeping eyes. Fascination rumbles in the balls. She has you. That faceless, formless bitch. Light the stove. We’ll eat then head to bed.

Contract – Part 2

A large, chipped china bowl sat on the floor by the side of the bed. It contained a rag soaking in bloody water. There were shadows. There were odd sounds. He was now writing down what he wanted them to know. And, of them all, she was the one he felt best with. The others, he didn’t know. And, though he didn’t know her, he felt that she would not try to kill him. Now that he was blind, he felt sure that, of them all, she would be least likely to smother him in the night. He took to pointing in the direction of her voice. He heard murmuring, questions whispered. Later, a piece of paper was placed on his chest. Then a pencil. Then, to his left he heard a voice. Her voice. ‘Okay’, it said. His writing must have been large. They went through lots of paper. Sometimes she had to move his hand to the correct position on the page; to start a new paragraph, for instance. As for food, his instructions were, as he wrote, ‘you prepare it for me please, I would but I’m blind and, anyway, I could never cook’. And so she did, over months it seemed. She must have been of a slight build; he couldn’t remember ever seeing her and, even if he did, he was likely out of his mind on drugs when he did; yet it seemed as though he could hear her feet, tapping on the stone floor. Yes, the floor is made of stone, he remembered. And he would feel small, delicate fingers touch his forearm, skilfully avoiding the cuts, when she was at his bedside. Piece by piece, he was assembling his guardian. As she spoke he imagined her teeth, even, strong, pretty. Her lips, he felt sure, were beautifully formed. There were things they kept between themselves and, as she spoke to him, her voice took on a wispy, fleeting quality that made him want to listen. Made him want to talk to her. He felt, though, that if he spoke, the world would stop in an instant. So, in his fear, he continued to write down what had happened and she, patiently, would move his hand when it was required. Once, feeling as though others were in the room watching, he spat to when he thought they were stood and tried to scream. His terror held his voice and only a tiny, pinched screech wheezed from him. A small hand touched his forehead and he lay back down. A voice called up from the gardens outside the place where the breeze came. They were alone.


Fumes part as her body cuts air currents, stares, conversations.
He sat in a small room waiting for the letters to arrive.
Twelve scratches. Wet sheets. The stomp.
Change of address.
Syncopated. Cyanide.
Simple sunset sweetness sugar.
And, for pudding, a note. From him, to her.
‘My Darling,
I can’t. Yes I see you everywhere and even on the television and yes, radio and, yes, even the newspapers and this, that and the other. But, darling…darling. When can we meet again? What, did you say, was your name?
‘Do you know the bandstand in Chinatown? 6 p.m.? I’ll be wearing tan brogues.’