she ran her finger through the blood on my face, drawing her own hieroglyphics.

I traced the bruises discolouring her flesh, dragging my fingertips over the rough older scabs and the feeling her flinch as I touched the newer wounds, where the blood still seeped.

I felt alive from this visible evidence laid bare. it made me tremble. her touch caught one of my wounds and I felt the blood start flowing again.

she looked at me, said, "____, ___ ____ __ __ __ __. ___ ___ _______."

we'd negotiated the terms of surrender hours before in a badly lit bar, there was no need for further argument, no late conditions or exemptions. our mutual acceptance of the original terms was unassailable.

together that night we were like gods.

this is an old memory, or maybe one yet to come - I'm not sure - it comes from a time when everything was so certain and so clear it's immediately suspicious.

***

sitting in this bar again. words failing. give me another drink or get me out of here.

***

I think too much.

***

I don't expect _______ to understand, not with her level of thinking. I'll leave her to her pleasant distractions. _____ will be able to absorb it without comment or problem - she sees right through me, with her brutal intelligence that I mumbled about drunkenly to someone all that time ago. one day I'll...

***

feeling the speed take hold. feeling it make me a better person.

get up off the floor...

time to be alive.

***

tying up a few loose ends before I leave. making sure everyone is sorted. everyone that matters, that is. their emotions are curious - I don't feel anything and that detachment is both useful and alienating. there are several reasons for leaving - they vary depending on who I'm talking to, but they're all true, all correct. I think ____ is the only one who really gets it - he sees the whole picture.

***

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

I will not fall.

similar threads:

Adding humor to this section
My Journal...
Want someone dead?
Is there a God?
Britney Spears is my god, anyone else?

hahaha

i like that first piece, everything after the " i think too much" line was kinda disjointed, or rather alien to a reader who isn't familiar with the situation... but i really enjoyed the rest, particularly the bit about the memory being suspicious cause it was from a time when everything was certain/clear, that makes total sense to me.

good stuff.

interesting first peice, very thought provoking yet only if you want it to be. Also a unique style of writing. a refreshing change.

sleepdep:

Times like these I think I'm never going to sleep again. Three and a half hours sleep in the past sixty hours. I'm exhausted but still not tired. My mind is going on overdrive - not logical reasoning, but flooding out laterally, taking 3 or more tangential thoughts at a time and recombining them in new ways. It sounds creative but it feels destructive. These thoughts are crashing around my head. My mind is like a rough sea - driven in every direction by rip tides, currents, undercurrents and countercurrents. It's getting tough in here.

* * *

2001: We're fucking in her double bed. Her ex-boyfriend is upstairs. I didn't give it a thought until now.

* * *

Wired and tired. I feel like someone's been slipping small quantities of speed into everything I've eaten or drank over the past five days. I looked at my eyes in the mirror. Mistake.

* * *

I have seen the violence inside of me. The selfish power, the violent lust. I have felt the potential for the things I despise: rape, murder, rage, sadism, uncontrolled violence. I am stronger now that I've recognised them. I've faced them and spoken their names to them. I have power over them now. I can control them and use them.

* * *

A one night contract of mutual cooperation for the sole aim of a brief bit of shared pleasure. I can deal with that. I don't want anything more. Don't offer it to me. I'll spit it back in your face.

* * *

I think I've reached a state of complete emotional insularity. It feels good to be this separate. It feels good to have so few ties. It feels like freedom.

* * *

I said I went for minds not bodies. She laughed - well, it was just a throwaway comment, but I realised it was true. I'd rather fuck someone's mind than their cunt. But doing both would be best.

* * *

I dreamt I had a child - a son. I cared for him and loved him. I was tender, but committed to my responsibility towards him. We walked through a park holding hands. He was looking up at me, trusting me completely. We talked as we walked. He asked questions and I answered them. I was smiling and absolutely content. I woke up and hated myself for this weakness. That was two days ago.

* * *

I remember when she died. That is, I remember the exact moment even though I wasn't aware of it. I was 18, she was 17. I was tired and vaguely hungry. Suddenly I hurt. I got a phone call about an hour later. I thanked the caller - a mutual friend - for letting me know. I went upstairs and told the girl in my room. My voice was calm and level. She cried. I didn't.

* * *

I haven't been to her grave since the funeral - that was 14 years ago. I remember looking down into the hole and seeing the coffin at the bottom. I threw in my flower, closed my eyes and moved on.

* * *

And...
If...
Maybe...
But...
So...
No.

* * *

Three years of this. More really, but that's when it kicked in big time. It lost me someone. I now know that was a good thing. I needed to be alone. I wish her the best. Now I can pursue this course without guilt. Just need to stay strong.

* * *

All that you think you know is wrong.

* * *

She was drunk and so was I. We walked back from the pub at the top of the hill. We got to mine. We fucked. We slept. I got up and went to work. She slept longer and let herself out sometime later. She left a note. Haven't really seen her since.

* * *

I like her boyfriend. He's a good person. I still fucked her. I spoke to him recently. I told him to say hello to her from me. She writes to me occasionally. She doesn't mention that night.

* * *

I don't care anymore. Once I might have felt guilty. It just doesn't matter.

* * *

1991: She invited me to stay in her room because it was too late to get back. The next day she spent hours waiting for an appointment to get the morning after pill. She said she bumped into her friend at the doctor's, who was doing exactly the same thing. They both laughed about it.

* * *

I fucked her best friend in her house. Not the way to win friends and influence people. I won't tell her if you don't.

* * *

Lying in bed in Nepal. Fan cutting the air above my head. Monsoon rain hitting the veranda like a biblical deluge. I'm waiting for her to speak. It takes her nearly two months. I should have told her to speak up sooner and that I was tired of waiting.

* * *

A pale imitation of intimacy is better than the real thing. Especially if you don't care. It's easier.

* * *

I need to sleep now. It's time.

* * *

I dreamt last night
about this quiet girl
who I say "hello" to every day
she always lowers her eyes
and whispers "hello" back,
polite, shy - you know the type.
in my dream she let loose
and kissed me passionately.
(cue shot of bedroom door closing, camera fades...).

I said "hello" to her the next morning,
waiting for a glimmer of recognition;
a flush of embarassment,
at a shared sordid secret.
no acknowledgment, of course -
must keep fiction and reality separated
in those confusing hours of the morning,
must remember that everyone else
has had a full night's sleep,
they haven't spent the better part of the night
staring at the wall,
smoking cigarettes,
and grinding their teeth
before an all too brief
and uneasy time of rapid eye movement sleep,
and that they can tell the difference,
but for me
it can take
a shitload
of concentration, or

two cups of strong black coffee
(2 sugars please)
will push away the veil
and clear my head
long enough for me to...

I sleep better during the day
at work,
where I'm not required
to think.

it's time to replace my prosthetic soul
with something less plastic,
so the children don't shout
"there goes the man with the wooden soul
the hollow man with the empty eyes
that glimmer only with the reflected lights
of passing cars and the sick glow of streetlamps
diffused in the fog of his memories."

they would, you know,
if only children
were that articulate.

I'll sell out my friends for the price
of a packet of cigarettes,
or to be bought a drink
by someone who'd tell me some lies
just like the old man said
in his song,
but I know I'm doing the right thing -
I'm selling them at a loss, anyway.
everyone does this everyday
when they turn away from their friends
into the embrace of the stranger
who they're fucking this week.
I just admit it,
and then,
apparently,
it gets uncomfortable.

flesh.
skin.
buy me a drink?

have a throwaway line,
I can do them to order, you know,
I won't claim they're original
but you won't have heard them before.
another drink?

the phone rings again,
I ignore it,
as usual.

she laughed and brushed closer to me,
(no, not her, someone else)
she's unsure
not of me, but of herself,
and what she wants
but she knows the equation,
we all do,
there are no such things as half-measures
it's all or nothing,
and she's weighing it up.
I think she likes
to test herself
and pass it off
as naivety.
OK, I'll play that game,
it kills time
if nothing else.

you write so.... something. real, i think is the word. real to a person that lives that life. in other words.. beautiful rendition of the life you're portraying. it's cold and i almost hate it. wonderful, once again.

also, it really makes your alias and avatar come to life to me.

very nice.....the first one was ingenius, and the last one was wonderful......strong imagery, some nice flow......i must confess, that sometimes i got lost in the meaning of it, but i enjoyed them thoroughly........very talented....you get a scratch n' sniff....flavor: strawberry-vanilla

hmm love the last one, A life I can understand well.

@ quiet - thanks - I try to just write lines of text rather than write poetry - tell the story clearly, but with a definite and precise use of clearly chosen (modern English) words - if I wouldn't say it, then I won't write it, because I'd feel stupid writing something I wouldn't say out loud - it would feel false.

@ sixxx(sic)six - again, thanks. the last one is my fave too - although strangely it's probably more like poetry than the other pieces.

@ white lily - thanks - I'm glad someone can understand it because I certainly can't.

nice and different, shit around here starts sounding the same after awhile... i can see a definate style change from a few months ago, either that or ya just didn't post that kind back then... change is good though, ive learned that pushing yourself to different styles is a very freeing experience

thanks. you were right first time - it's a slight style change for me, moving to a more "normal poetry" structure without doing "normal poetry".

werd... doin a little of that myself... you're welcome to check it out (and then there is the pierce)

there's definately some changes being made to this poetry section.....and thank fuckin' god!

huzza!

lol laaz, I am a wierd I know.

this one was written over the past few days. I was going to call it "what I did on my weekend" (the title of an essay we were given to write at school every Monday when I was about 5 or 6 years old), but eventually settled for "the ballad of brighton beach".

Notes for our colonial cousins in the USA:
1. In English slang, "pissed" means drunk rather than the US meaning of angry.
2. In English we spell aesthetic properly, with the initial "a".

the ballad of brighton beach

I wake about 3am, I think,
and stagger drunk to the toilet.
promptly crack my head
on the corner of the bathroom cabinet.

hand slaps to the point of impact -
primitive reaction to stop the pain and anger.

fingers comes away slick red
I dab at my wet palm,
take the obligatory taste,
then focus on the mirror
(thankfully unbroken)
to see blood flowing down my face
from some hidden point above the hairline.
my mind tries to resolve the equation
of little pain felt
compared to streams of blood
now dripping off my chin
into the washbasin.
(the cinematic aesthetic
is not lost on me,
not even this pissed).
'alcohol blunting the pain',
the alcohol-blurred mind decides.
grab a wad of tissue
to wipe the rivulets of blood off.
another wad compressed
over the source of the stream,
holding it there
as I stagger back to bed,
wondering how bad it will be in the morning
when I'm sober enough,
both to feel, and deal with, it.

I wake to see the bloodstained wad
lying on the pillow like a lover's face.
the bathroom looks like a murder scene
(minus police tape) -
blood finger-smeared and splashed
on every surface,
wads of tissue
printed with dark rorschach tests
cover the floor.
vague memory of last night
it must be my blood.
after a cursory examination of my scalp
I find matted hair
glued in sticky brown resin
(head wounds bleed profusely,
even minor ones).



another day
scratching for pennies
on the dead earth,
stumbling and lurching
from meal to meal,
hand-to-mouth,
mouth-to-glass,
glass-to-bar.

my dreams fuel me,
stoking fires of determination
which drink excites or smothers,
depending on my mood
and the aspect of the moon.

I grasp the can of beer
and feel my grip on reality tighten,
a grip so tight
it could crush this paper-thin aluminium,
and, for a second, I think about recycling.



she sits close -
please, not so close.
don't trust me
don't be so confident of my good nature,
not with me as drunk as this,
and your skirt as short as that.
I have to turn away
and try to ignore
the proximity alarms of demand
clammering from my reptilian brainstem.



in the darkly lit shadows,
pierced by stuttering shards of colour,
I dance to the assault of music,
reducing it to its base elements -
semi-automatic drumbeats,
tracer flashes of guitar,
and sirens wailing.
and I dance to this black noise,
losing myself in the DMZ.


nails deliberately dig deep
into the meat of my shoulder,
leaving raised half-moon weals.
from her it's a challenge to reply
in kind, and without kindness,
to fight fire with fire,
because violence is her passion,
and we always love the ones we hurt.
it's an offer I can't refuse.


clean-up duty takes little time,
blood washes or flushes away,
leaving my bathroom pristine,
or at least presentable.
ceramic tiles rarely stain,
but the grout between them
is less than white now.
quickly finished, it leaves me
with a moment to reflect
on how my sense of time
is not linear, like most,
but ebbs and flows,
and sometimes the tides
wash up flotsam from
vessels sunk years before.

the tide is going out now,
I'm going to float on my back,
and let the current carry me
out to sea.

hmm very interesting, i like it.