Baby in this evening glow
Turn your head to me real slow
And through golden locks feed me your woe
turn your bare shoulders to me
Leaning in seductive tranquillity
On this opened cushioned ocean we sleep
With grace and guile just sail your lips
To the seas of my soul
And dock them on mine with subtle slow
And exist
In us
together,
in this
endless evening glow
eyes regain their vision
parting me from myself
and I focus on the black weight pressed against the head of my so called friend
“fuck you, don't say a word to me”
I whisper
“do you have any idea how this feels?!”
“you don’t give a shit about anything!"
"What the fuck were u thinking?!"
He cowers and trembles
Turning from the barrel
And mutters something almost inaudible
I lean forward Toward him to catch his desperate breath and He stammers
“d..d..dont kill me, please! I don’t know why I did it”
“I don’t think I just act I..I..I can’t help it”
“can’t help it!?
I snap
"You knew EXACTLY what you were going to do!”
“I saw your eyes all over her when I introduced her to you”
I look away for a split second and tainted tears start to swell
Memories of her touch imprinted
Her smile, her taste, her smell
My anger rises again
he knew what he was doin’
He knew all along
I should paint his brains all over that fucking wall
the inner turmoil starts to show and my hand starts to drop
Eyes blinded by the ally he's been to me until..
Stop!
memories play machine gun pain
And the devil deals one more card my to
Battered, broken brain
I can’t let this dirty cunt get away with this
how many times has he fucked someone else's mrs?
My finger tightens round the trigger
Quivers at the fury that has arisen
“you were supposed to be my friend”
"WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING??"
at that he crumbles and fear turns to despair
and urine starts to spread itself down his trouser leg but again
he doesn't answer the question.
I harden
square gazed to his forehead where cold steel rests
Amid waterfalls of perspiration
my eyes burn
Intent
“I TRUSTED you, I treated you like a BROTHER!”
“And you FUCKED me for another notch on your four poster?!"
“I loved her, you know that?!”
“we even talked about moving in together”
“but you fucked it you BROKE US, and you broke me!”
“so now I will do the same..”
“repent motherfucker”
“For I AM LOKI”
“Mafai mushkala”
he says to me
a wide grin stretching his honesty
“Mafai mushkala, Teacher”
repeated again as he strolls in
with outstretched hands
10 minutes late to class.
with eyes of death I bore into his bravado
breaking resistance before it begins
and the smile recedes
no words are released
bright menace
burning them whole
Until his arrogance has faded
and shifty eyes search for a crutch from other students
but they have seen this glare before
they know to keep quiet
“Mushkala” I say
“big Mushkala”
I know not the word for big in Arabic yet
but my students are smart
and he understands
next comes the pleading
as his name goes in my book
I direct him to his chair
staring shards of glass
and he sits on the broken pieces
no longer comfortable
another battle won today
Tomorrow he will be on time.
I hope
She leaves again
Closes the door but not before
flashing that sweet smile
understanding in its nature
But it understands
nothing
‘You'll find a job’
She says each evening she returns
Cooks and chats for what is deemed
Enough
Then is off again
To her work, to her livelihood
And each time
I'm left
stood
In more moments than I choose
I revert back
And question whether coming home so soon
Was really the right decision.
For her
yes
to see her
Yes
to hold her
Yes
to feel her heart next to mine
Yes.
For me...
Maybe she doesn't realise
What happens when she closes that door
That purpose in any sense is lacking
That grim depictions of the future
Lay lurking
That all my mistakes in that place
Follow and taunt
And life without purpose is
an impossibility
For me.
It's been two months of watching that door close
Two months of living off her coat tails
I am as lonely here as I ever was out there.
Threadbare
And broke
At least there I had purpose
Here
I am a mere side note
But I cannot say these things
Without seeming
Like I am not proud
Of what she has become
Of what she's done
On how far she's come
Since I last closed the door.
As if I am not supporting her
In her new adventure
I cannot say these things
Without upsetting the
Precarious
Despairingly I have
Once or twice
And unfortunately
Her eyes glaze over
And a comparison between
Herself and my place of former residence
Plays like a 1930's black and white
Cinematic
But
There is no comparison
I want to tell her
Being with her is magic
Is illumination
Is revelatory
Coming home should have been easy
But she closes the door
With a sweet smile
Each morning
And I am left with myself
Again
With no purpose
With no money
With no life
With no end.
As light glistens through the pale lense of the bottle
I am reminded of the sun
Of it's warmth
Of it's kiss
And so I pour myself another glass
It may be the only time I see it
Better to consume it
And let it glaze over me
Drift off into safe reverie
She grows sunflowers in winter
Tall, resolute faces of earthly fire
Smiling their memories
It is too cold
to leave them outside
So they sit
Next to the bed-side
I am far away in a deserted world
second suns won’t stand here
Memories burnt black
It is too hot
For them outside
So i sit
waiting
An empty pot of sand
Next to the bed-side
Dear Lucky please forgive me
I left without saying goodbye
In truth I never did
You have imprinted so much onto me
In all that you were and all you would give.
I miss you in the quietness of night
While the city glows on and sleep evades
I miss you in the pause between the next thing I must do
And the previous thing I can’t do
Anymore
I miss you more in conversation
In friends for only 5 minutes
In separation from those
I can no longer be acquainted with
I miss the way you dance to music
So silky and slow
independent and unknowing
of those around
I miss your kiss in utter boredom
And the times you resist the monotony of everyday tasks
How you bask in the in between
I miss the way you allow me to dream
As a split between the seams
of obligatory servitude
In truth
I miss how you made me feel cool
Like I was the only one in the world
That deserved your touch and your attention
I miss the way
I could use you as an intervention
But Now I’m lost
I’m undressed
With what do I fill the void you’ve left
And how do I spend these extra breaths
I’m no longer bereft
of
why did I stop?
I miss you dear Lucky
Like a friend
a sweet song
But I’m afraid we had to part
Dear Lucky
So life can carry on
He’d told me once that he’d found God in a tomato.
“You what?!” I’d swiftly replied.
“Yeah” he’d said nonchalantly.
“God. In a tomato” And then he’d put his headphones in and returned back to his iPad screen and tapped away, his own face staring back at him as he spoke. Prophetising to those that would listen, as if his words were a spectral fragmentation, a revolutionary vision that all MUST know.
I’d sat and stared, bewildered at him in that moment, unsure of what to say. Uneducated in the correct responses to such spontaneous outbursts from these people, and I’d curled up inside myself questioning my very nature. Was I supposed to understand what he meant? Was I supposed to retort with some equally obscure statement, spoken, of course, matter of factly, to prove my worth? In that moment the windows offered nothing to me. I’d glanced out them still, hopeful of some respite from the inner turmoil stewed up by one singular statement. But, in that moment, they’d merely taunted me with their reflection of the inner carriage, hiding the ever changing landscape behind them.
There would always be this one bloke, who would get on the train in Chesterfield, who would make this noise as he searched for his seat.
"Boop be doop be doo"
He’d walk up and down the aisle, 3 times, touch each chair on the little red handle on the side, not to steady himself though, 3 times up and down, then eventually sit himself in the exact same chair, every time.
"Boop be doop be doo" He would chant, for each trip.
Sat in his seat he would stop.
Put his hands in his lap, and begin counting.
Mrs Davies' cackle was legendary.
Everyone knew it, everyone despised it. Brash, cutting, and eruptive, it would come out of nowhere and any poor sod who had drifted off during the journey would be jolted awake and thrown in with the hyena.
She was loud. Louder than you’d want.
I learnt about her wayward husband, 3 errant children, dried up vagina, bank loans, bills, cat murders, coffee mornings, gym membership, athletes foot, leaky roof, fake degree and followers, all in the first trip.
I couldn’t help it. Neither could the other passengers, I imagined.
“It’s a bear market. Sell your current bags, keep it tied into Tether. It’s a ticking time bomb, but for now it is the best stable coin to use while the rest play out their volatility.”
Suits would frequent the carriage in their packs.
Black and straightened, mostly two piece, mostly formal cut, shaped to accentuate strong shoulders, for strong meetings. Other colours would occasion but as feral wolves, these would not be integrated, left instead to fend for themselves.
With every word spoken on their mobiles, with every piece of information passed down to whoever it was on the other end of the line, they would always finish with
“..This is not financial advice, DYOR.”
It took me a while to figure out they were not simply informing their ‘clients’ of a new cologne.
Putting down the phone, they would then snarl between them, the 3 piece suit pack leader growling orders to ‘buy’ or ‘sell’ - generally the opposite of the phone call - and they would all howl with laughter, at the joys of insider trading.
There was this girl on the trip, quite pretty, who everyday would see this boy. He was not so pretty. The boy though would see the girl and smile, and the smile returned, but both would sit, away from each other. The girl, with pride in her appearance would retreat, lonely eyes drawn away, coat shut tightly around her. She believed, it would seem, in unwelcome attention. I believe she considered herself pragmatic.
The boy was a twiddler. He would twiddle his thumbs, small pieces of paper, plastic, cardboard, he would twiddle them so much that they would cascade from his hands, shredded into impossible pieces falling through his fingers. He wore lonely eyes too. Though he dared not look towards the girl again, for fear of misrepresentation.
They sat together one day, but neither spoke.
The gentleman with the food cart would baffle me most though.
Tall, over 6 foot with long hair in a ponytail, open toed sandals and an age that had lived the 60’s. In the middle of all this muted carnage, his voice would travel.
Bizarre it would seem, as his words would be barely audible at the best of times, yet somehow, no matter how rowdy it would get, his softness would always permeate.
‘Any snacks off the trolley?’ he would float.
Heads would never really turn, but hands would fly up with cash and cards and barked orders, exchanges made and thanks provided, but, and this was the intriguing part, but no one ever looked at his face. Except, it would seem, for me.
Though, I never bought anything.
The commute had always been a necessary part of my life, unfortunately so. Two hours it would take me to get to work.
From one cog to another.
I liked it at first, something new. New journey, new experience, new surroundings. Until, I began to look inside the carriage instead of out. Now it looked very different.
I never thought I would see incredulity.
The top of heads, bald spots, weaves, golden, dark, kept, scruffy, covered, all poking just above the seats they chose to sit in, much like myself. We had all decided at one point in our lives to allow ‘the great spectacle’, to embrace the distraction.
To drink the water.
Lucidity, for me, had returned though, and I could see. The world was strange, absurd, oblivious, entrapped.
And in this metal carriage I could see the top of heads, everyone, all facing away, all facing one way, all facing the wrong way.
All of them.
Always going backwards.
Suddenly it dropped, demand dried up and production stopped
And bones rose from the black.
One by one they pieced themselves together
Rubbed eyes, stretched minds
and left untethered.
Barrels Of political direction
stacked up in corners
Owners paying for storage
Wars unimportant
as the fight for
obsidian blood
Is halted.
Suddenly it dropped, demand dried up and production stopped
And their bones rose from the black.
onwards they marchedlooked
back.
Is it sight that makes you blind or blindness that makes you see?
Is it speech that makes you dumb or dumbness that makes you speak?
Is it deafness that makes you hear everything you never heard before or noise that deafens your senses to everything around and more?
Do your hands tremble because of anger or do your angered fists clench shaking?
Do tears flow because of instances or situations of your own making?
Do hallowed words break loose from the mouth of unsettled tyrants or is it the whispered words of others that make tyrants so rampant?
Do angels sing their serene melodies to calm the despairing souls, or do lamenting matriarchs show their vocals encouraging angels to be bold?
Does a smile show the fine line between joy and melancholy or is it merely a placard of arrogant ignorance to the slightness of someone’s folly?
Are guns the mark of war or is war the maker of guns and is peace sought for the country or to show others what can be done?
And how
See for now, these questions need not be answered,
Need not be laid out and plastered over all four walls around you, need not be facebooked thousand hits, articles written and perceptions altered.
For these are rhetoric, these are ponderings, Derelict from methodical algorithms.
They are unanswerable for the masses, but entertained by oneself. The answer you provide.
For you are the blind man that can see through your eyes, if you would just use them and let your deaf ears hear your own rhythm, let your own speech provide the hymn let your wars be fought on all four fronts of sight, sound, touch and smell. And let your heart swell. Let your life be your guide, your perceptions be your mind and remove yourself from manipulation.
For then and only then will your angels sing.
