Box ~ a short story

Box ~

They had been onstage for ten minutes and already the actors were panting as they ran on and off stage to the sounds of screaming children. The panto was in full swing, lights flashing, sounds bursting and children whooping, calling, shouting and laughing. So far, so good. James stood back against a tab as Santa Claus bounded past being pursued by a sweaty goblin. The goblin nearly knocked James' camera out of his hand as he ran past, a huge butterfly net trailing behind him. In the tumult of noise James instinctively shielded his expensive piece of equipment and called for the actor to watch it; the goblin turned his head suddenly and broke his comic book character, the face turned from a comedy grimace to shoot a look of pure hatred at James as he ran on. James shivered and resumed his documentation from backstage, capturing a company on tour for Christmas season.

The play was easy enough, Santa was being chased across the world by goblins who wanted all the presents for themselves, to ransom them for children. The children were encouraged to join in the fun and even plucked out of the audience at the end to help Santa give out the presents. James thought that the perhaps the basic premise had undertones of a Grimm fairy tale and was even moderately risque in places; especially the scene where the goblins 'stole' a child from the audience to get the ball rolling. The children were led to believe that the goblins had taken the child off to eat them, and many whooped and screamed, many cried and had to be led out by parents. James had been in the auditorium for a previous show and was concerned at the crying ones, these children reminded him of abandoned babies in war torn countries, their eyes rheumy with tears and their ideas of terror being formulated by adults playing comic book. He had wanted to photograph them for a separate project, maybe something about 'the breakdown of the family' or 'ideas on a social expectations in children'; anything really to blanket the images of  those fascinating and disturbing children, few in number, crying.

He turned his camera to the wings and snapped the actors backstage, preparing the props for the next bit of action. One, the heroine, was getting ready to ride in on a reindeer prop, a cardboard horror on big golden wheels, but looked terribly stressed. James kept snapping with interest. The stage hands were trying to dress her in snow and tinsel, but it wasn't really working, the bits kept falling off and it was obvious her cue was approaching. James wondered how any of these actors could hear their cues with the noise of the screaming children at all, but then, the stage hand began wheeling her on regardless, to the delight of the audience. You have to think on your feet, he thought and watched through the lens.

The screaming laughter became high pitched, the actors seemed to be confused. From the wings James couldn't see anything, but could hear. Then, he watched as the actors were obviously trying to calm the children down. Something had gone wrong. James edged forward to look, still gazing through his lens. There, centre stage, beautifully lit, the actors were helping the heroine up from where she had fallen. The reindeer prop had broken, it's head, grotesque, was hanging off, torn from the main body by her weight. It stood there, slowly nodding to then be ripped and finally crash to the stage. The children were screaming at this sight, adults trying to calm them down. Above, the stage curtain couldn't come down fully due to the monstrosity beneath, and James focused his camera upon it, house lights fully up now, illuminating perfectly the children beyond crying at the sight.

Winter ~ a nonet

In this, my hour of broken sleep,

Empty silence in a cold room,

Moonbeam sheen white blade across

This bed I lay upon ~

Such peace of heart I

Find in this time,

To think of

You and

Dream.

Millie and the Moon

Woke up from dreams of being photocopied and having to deal with several hundred paper versions of myself jostling for attention, to find Millie staring at the moon. Quite beautiful. A kitten, new to the world, staring in fascination at something I could never possibly make her understand, myself too in awe of the morning moonfall...existing in that moment, a human and a cat, no language to link us, yet both animals on the Earth, dumbfounded by the beauty of our ancient companion; on a journey through time and space ~ Until I realised that she was infact stalking a spider on the ceiling.

winter morning ~

still the sun rises

behind the veil

morning shows

a painting undone

of colours

love is barren

fields hammered flat

under cold steel

invisible unless

the strings of this knotted

heart relent

After an image in 'A Body Lain Out' by Lorca ~

The summer in a foreign dusk.
Close heat that grows everywhere
From the skin, breathed.
A balmy silence towards the lain loved one -
Alive in degradation!
The smell of seas emptying
It's cold shoals on the sense -
History gathers at last to rest
On pebbles, red stone as warm as a heart,
Whispering grasses -
The shudders of the mourning.

untitled ~

in my dream

love was onfire -

walls were aflame and

time had no meaning.

the whole world stopped

for the musics i heard -

a distance that evolved

from my heartbeat.

i looked up at your face -

a bone white mirror -

it broke into pieces upon the air.

Saturday in the Roman City ~

The dog screams in it's lust,

Emptying the bowels of the

Dark vowels it knows,

Around the streets, cascade,

Slapping like flesh on steel each word,

An echo torment like me

Waiting for the turns,

The love comes, coming

Not known any other way

Someone controls, always

It stops, the driven take over,

Each machine shudders terror silk,

The sound a million hearts

And each one beating breaks.

The Load ~ (for Mahmoud Darwish)

I carry a load and
Now I am afraid of doorways,
The passage makes new parts
Of my condition bleed-

Her pains, I am carrying
Her, her load creaks in my
Bones so that they snap inside
The flesh of me.

Stone burnt in sun-
Water made thin on the
Scorched ground of Gaza,
Hurt, as ice moves on the
Ebb of the tide,
Ice melts on the worn tongue.

I ask her to leave me alone
So I am not so hurt by
Her sudden objections
As she jabs her nails

Into my side and rips in
Between my ribs, the nettles
Of viens wrapped around them,
Stabbing and stabbing.

Rain that must dance
With the winds,
As pebbles rush back
With the waves,
Paper runs from the flames,

I gave my life to her unknowing;

To her my life I gave.

The Nile ~

It has never been so quiet
The night as still as a dead serpent
In the rushes-
A car breaks the sound and
Vanishes, do dark the dawn
May never come.

I have lain here in
Awe of cherished sleep
Folded myself over and over
On the river bed, unclean
With the moan of bones.

I rose to drink from famished lips
From dreams aching with the colour and light,
Water as warm as spent wax my words
Burning speechless onto a page.

What dark matter is that
That whistles so close to the eye?

What scuttled over my face?

A bat that rushed to

Sear me with it’s wing-

A scarab beetle, beloved, that

Bore claws minute into my brain.

your want of me ~

i am 

i a

i am your better self
encroached by wit in the sidelines
the shadows
i watch your indiscretions
your losses
you counter my better judgements
act on a behalf alone
it is in the glass you see me
i stare with your thoughts
sprawling on my face
you catch me in car windows
a better shade of self from another world
at night i settle
and talk to you
but you scream in snores and sweats
have you ever slept well
knowing i am so close behind the veil
i sleep often i dont have to be awake
the years meander and i live
in my distant palace
made grand by your want of me
occasionally you pass my gates
unaware i live there
you live there
waiting to awaken in the first morning
and walk
stride through any glass
even a finger
to touch me

Salvation ~

These are the beginnings
The walk after seeing
My mother sat; not on the bed in tears
But crouched by the radiator
Crying - " What have I done?"
I thought that then,
Intially, as I have always thought,
As they have felt they have always had it harder
Than most; Mother, in '91,
Was one of the first to get the,
'New fangled cancer treatment',
She should be famous, of the 1100 women
To recieve it, to push the stats of survival upwards.

I became a drinker and lost
Lots of dear but isolated things; the dances
Of love where music faded without song-
Couldn't remember much anyway,
Aside from the sex, why?
Why not the touches, the held
Softness of her love to me?
I reached for her but she wasn't there.

I walked the streets.

The blood flowed,
Like the sheen rain pavement
Mirrors that held no image
In the stones,

There wasn't a room at the hostel, but
Kevin shared a joke or two, his hands
Were burnt from something
On the pads of his thumbs, like
He had wanted to erase something 
From a hard surface quickly-
He smelt of cheap whisky, not on the breath
But through the pores, bleary eyed, frayed hair,
His jeans stained - he asked me if I used and I
Thought of my mother; her back towards me suddenly.
He gave me a blanket, no room, directing me
To Andrew who took me by the hand,
A burly 30 something and told me of the solace
To be found in a man-
But I needed sleep.
So, he took me to the underpass of the motorway,
The lights hurt my eyes, he toppled a burnt out sofa
For me to stand on, a key to open
The door- I had my blanket, my torch, my mother like
A sygil and I rose.
Thunderous, he left me there. I lit the candles.
Around, the room was a service tunnel blocked off.
At one end, a mattress, human waste, an old woman there.
Doubling up, I wrapped close, lent to the task of self love
Of heart, she watched me, passed me her bottle.
To show comradery yet distance, I wiped the lip
Throughly and swung.

Seven am came quickly.

She rolled, snug in defeat, I was amazed I had climbed
So high and surely would sprain my ankle on the drop!
There is nothing like it, the stark morning air,
I felt more alive than ever before.
Near this motorway place were new houses, developments
That reminded me of Loutraki and Greece, Ikea based and I laughed.
I needed food so went and had some -
The Salvation Army took me in. 
( Who the hell serves mashed potato for brekkie?? )
Toothless knuckle red men, stinking of whatever
They could afford. I wandered in having been told
Of the place and was viewed like a pariah
Even of them.

Slight stubble.
Second night on the streets -
Cold eyes, dead eyes-
The woman I shared the filth with
Sank slowly down next to me to eat.                             Newport 2010.

Celtic Enchantment / Love Has Found Me

Celtic Enchantment

Takest to form a fish or hare,
Or whispers on the evening air,
Takest to form a bully bear
In the forsets of the dawning.

Takest to form the woodland trees,
And leap with ease from leaf to leaf,
Takest to form the summer breeze,
And listen in the evening.

When thy enemy is close at last,
Takest to form the swaying grass,
Make him of his wit to ask,
And confusion send him reeling.

Takest to form the darkest night,
Deprive him of all strength and sight,
Run him down with all your might,
To the silent river moving.                              Reading, 2008.


Love has found me

Love has found me,
Made me hungry for it's taste,
Shuddering humble in it's gaze,
Love has found me.

Let me hold you,
Keep you safe and warm,
Keep you safe from harm,
As I hold you.

Our time is precious,
A jewel sacred in your hand,
From it I carve a wedding band,
Our time is precious.

The rhythm of our rhyme,
Love can find, love can find,
Command the beating of a heart,
Love draws as distance parts.

                                                           Scotland 2007

Loss ~

What do I lose,
Everytime your crystal fire
Widens to attempt
Your closures -

Pieces of my sharpnel life,
My silver of tears,
Through your perfect grace
And my hope, our years?


-Lincoln 2007

Flt. Lt ~ Scottow Cemetary

From a photograph run of colour,

Some twenty seven years of rains;
Laid at the stone of his grave,

His eyes spoke to me.

I remembered 1988 and was ten,
Older now than he ever reached;
His death at twenty six,

"All my grief will be endless
Until we meet again" ~ Mum.

His passing close,
An anniversary in September,
Approaching on winter's air,
Flying as new leaves that spiral.

I laid a broke stone,
To join the rubble;

Because I do not understand grief.

1st Sep 2013

Iske ja murra ~

Iske ja murra ~


The Winter War of 1940 was as harsh and unforgiving as the men who fought in it. The Finnish Army repelled in fit and starts the onslaught of the Russians. Wiley and understandably patriotic, the Finns fought without the murmuring disquiet that had led their enemy to revolution so many years before.
The Red Army were brutes by nature and took no prisoners. Already word abounded of atrocities by these men and the Finns, outnumbered and angry, met these outrages with a determination beyond the guerrilla like tactics that kept the Reds guessing and on the move. The forests were thick with snow and a cold emptiness unlike anything even the Russians had seen before. Trees, black from the winter harshness, clawed the dead sky like the cracks in a skull and all was so unnaturally quiet one could almost hear the heartbeat of the other man in the foxhole. When a skirmish happened, it was an outrage of sound. Blood was the only colour, the redness bright and alluring to look at for days afterwards on the never thawing ground.

The Finns advantage over their enemy went beyond numbers and force. They had wit and an understanding of their environment. Using the terrain, they stung and hit the larger divisions of the enemy. They adopted a successful sniper campaign that dispersed the oncoming columns into broken lines, evening the score a little. The Russians responded with their own small bands of snipers, to hunt the Finns. What followed was delicate cat and mouse tactics against the background of a larger conflict, a separate war between the forces. Sometimes, two or three men would be simply hunting another. The lone soldier would use all his knowledge and every weapon to hand; skill with his rifle, patience, subterfuge, opportunism, cowardice; all to survive.

So it was in the eve of that year. Winter held court like a god and all were in its sway.

He looked up. The trees were beautiful he thought. Against the sky, they were defined and reassuring, stark and solid. Aarne, 23, Finnish, looked around at his companions. The score of men squatted on the earth or stood sharing cigarettes. They were vermin, Aarne thought gently, ants or dust, swarming in clumps for rations, without purpose save firing at the enemy. Confused and tired. Every man was exhausted. It created a hard edge to every discourse that required speech. By now, after over two months pushing and pulling with the Russians, these men need only exchange the briefest of looks to convey understanding. And when they lost a man from their number it was as if a new language had been born from the fear and the exhaustion. Men of rank conveyed orders but behind the words, the true feelings bled for all to see. Aarne went down to a small group to share a cigarette. It was morning. Cold and grey but not snowing. Aarne liked it when there was snow. It gave pace to the day. And it was beautiful the way each flake was so delicate and danced on the air.

“They skinned two of them and hung the skin on a tree” a private continued, “the third man was tied to a tree and had been made to watch it before being torn open.. At least they hadn’t done it to him. But these Russians are cruel, they are not men. They are damned hiisi”. News of further tortures had reached these bands of Finns by hearsay and rumour, no one knew exactly what the Russians were capable of,
“But why not shoot him? Why torture, what can be gained?” This man had been a law student Aarne remembered, so he always contrived to present a logical argument.
“They do not care, it was for their own amusement” Aarne wanted to speak too, to talk about his grandfather. On the lake where he grew up, his Grampa had said of the beasts that roamed the forests at night, feeding on the fear of men. Great beasts, born of evil he said, that fed on flesh and screams. Without realising it, Aarne had opened his mouth and spoken these words he had thought.The other men looked at him cautiously, “Yes” the private said, “I have heard of these stories. These are stories to frighten children. These Hirviö are not as dangerous as these men we now fight.” Had they thought him mad? Aarne wondered and kept quiet. As children they had played in the forests now as men they fought.

He checked his rifle, a 7.62mm M-91. He never laid this gun on the ground. It was always in his grasp or placed across his arms. He slept with the wood and iron clutched to his chest. It never left him. Sometimes, when he couldn’t find merciful sleep on the freezing ground, he gazed at it. It had no colour then. It looked like bone, packed ash. At the beginning of the year, he had laid it on the ground next to him and the Russians had come through, using a big 20mm on them, flushing forward through the chaos with troops. He had been dazed and separated from the rifle. The Russian who had tried to kill him had fired his sub, as scared as Aarne was. Much younger. The bullets scattered around, peppering the snow, missing him; an undisciplined discharge of the weapon. Then, the enemy had jammed the gun and in a fit of panic and fear, Aarne had driven into him, bringing him down. When he had recovered his sense, the man was face down in the dirt, dead. All had been numb, like the world had stopped. There had been no sounds, just Aarne and the dead man. This delirium troubled him still and from that point he never let go of the weapon. He had spoken his thoughts aloud and Aarne knew they thought him mad.

Soon, the men would gather to listen to their captain. Aarne disliked this man. A man of little skill, he relied upon brash statements and even brasher tactics. Aarne had seen something in the man’s eyes once. They were all afraid of course, a fear that pressed on them constantly, so that they were strained to breaking point; so that each mind was exhausted with keeping the fear from it. But the captain’s fear was not something that he could control. In his eyes, Aarne had witnessed the blind primordial panic under fire that got men killed. Sometimes his own fear helped Aarne, made him focus all the more; in this sense he was a functioning soldier. He took away consequence of his actions save survival. His self fear became an engine of focus. It drove every nerve of him to kill without mercy in the melees. Like that first soldier he thought. That was the first.

“Today” The captain said, “we travel to our brothers, north” He pointed a full gloved flat hand out, like he was signalling on a bicycle,
“Or enemy is weakening, they are weakening!” He pounded his hand into the other for effect,
“It is now only a matter of time” He stood on top of an ammunition box, so precious few left. When this speech ended, Aarne took his place in the queue for bullets. Six today. But then he was called by the captain,
“It now falls to you to stay behind with the safety of your comrades in your thoughts, position yourself in the trees and pick off the enemy. You are best of us Aarne.” He was breathless and afraid as he spoke, handing Aarne the sniper’s rifle, a thin sleek line of steel and wood. Aarne was stunned and looked around him. The twenty men simply stared. All were quiet. So it was his turn. But he knew. Each of them would come to this in the weeks ahead, even the captain, shielded from his duty by men that were slowly dying in his charge. The machine gun was taken from him and he felt naked. The sniping gun was lighter, it felt to him as if he could not kill a fly with it, let alone halt the advance of an armoured division. He thought of the Russian he had killed again.This gave him strength. So it was his turn,
“If I was the last of our countrymen, I would defend until my final breath.” He said to them all.
“ Iske ja murra!” and turned away from them. He did not help them pack the camp and no more was said. In his dirty white fatigues, he climbed a tree that was behind a line of trees. He would not have much of a chance and could only hope to kill the enemy commander and maybe the medic before his himself was shot. Killed outright he hoped as he climbed. He felt nothing. He watched the men move away, watched the captain linger by the Bren gun, carried on the back of a horsedrawn cart. Noone spoke. Such a weapon was vital to their defences. It had the power of several soldiers and as their number dwindled, the captain would order it set up on it’s tripod where he would sit behind it, eating his rations, eyes always scanning for the next attack. It was the last time he saw the captain and any of the men. Later that day they were wiped out by an equally numbered band of Russians. The captain finally breaking, running headlong into the line of fire. None of them were skinned, they fought each other and fell on the cold earth. Aarne, around the time night fell, had heard gunfire, swallowed by the dense air and maybe guessed as much. By the time that the band of men had reached him, he had been waiting for several hours.

The sight on his rifle gave him an air of unreality, like seeing moving images on a screen. He had fired and killed several men, who had been running through the trees. Then something  happened. Instead of coming forward and spreading out to find him, the Russian soldiers simply panicked and fled in all directions. Aarne watched for a moment and then, like a child throwing stones at ducks, he fired at will, picking off the men, who screamed and ran into the trees. Aarne stopped and watched; the men were terrified. Coming through the trees they had been fleeing he thought, and this disordered rout was surely not to do with his captain. There was something else. He  slid down the tree. One Russian simply ran past him in blind panic, screaming and running into the darkness of the forest. The Finn watched as the Russian was suddenly gripped in the half light and ripped open. The man spun then went rigid, falling to his knees. The mess of his stomach boiled in the air, a steaming grey tangle of tubes. There was a grunt, then something like hooves pounding the hard ground, clearing off in the direction of the other fleeing soldiers. The screaming and shouting died away as the remaining men disappeared into the gloom. His breath was the only sound and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Aarne ran to the Russian and cradled him, watching the man die. He thought of the first man he had killed.  Then he heard a soft whine, like air escaping from a balloon. It was several hundred yards ahead of him but distinct. Then a sound of ripping leather, a sound of soaking linen being torn. Then nothing. He checked a round in the breach and edged forward, eyes wide. In the darkness he saw minimally, but enough to find the source. There, on a tree, a blanket of canvass was strewn from a branch to a trunk. Aarne stared at it. Carefully, he went forward and touched it. It was warm, wet. In the dim light, he saw hair, then a nipple, part of an ear. He spun around and went down on his knee, rifle poised. There was a stench in the air, and Aarne was afraid. In the darkness of the forest, surrounded by these slain men, he felt the same wonder and fear he had felt as a child, his Grampa telling him his stories, his Grampa telling him.

Aarne ran into the forest, away from the death, his feet pounded hard ground and he stumbled. His rifle was heavy.  How far could he hope to get? The forest around him was still quite black. His direction was undisciplined, so he stumbled on. He should make a stand, he thought, with a sudden revival. But he ran on, a deep horror in him now, the Russian who had been torn spinning through his mind, that Russian he had killed, only a boy maybe, like he was with his Grampa at the lake...He stopped and again went down on his knee, the weapon clutched and ready. The tree in the lightening gloom seemed to have a face, a crunched thing, frozen there. Maybe that would be him. Where he would go, frozen in his agony.

Then, a howl in the twilight. He froze, his heart the only moving thing in his body. Each beat pained him like nails driven home. It was coming. A bear perhaps. But what had ripped that man and displayed him. Another howl, almost mocking. The darkness was stealing away. If he were to die, he would make a stand. He was a man, no doubt, one of the last of his countrymen. Iske ja murra, Iske ja murra, Iske ja murra.
He reached his hand, a ghost hand, onto the bark of the tree and drew the palm down, Shards fell to the ground and he did it again and again, harder then harder, he went to it frantically, with both hands onto his knees, drawing them up and down, tearing, not noticing the pain, the blood sowing into the snow to remain there, bright and clear. On his knees he threw his hands to the sky and yelled.There was a pounding over the ground towards him. Aarne saw nothing, he fired twice and his heart was  gouged, still beating from his chest, and he saw his Grampa at the lake and saw no more.

The morning was silent and the sun shone, relaxing the winter’s hold on the land. The Russian commander hoped this was the thaw finally, hoped that the end was near. His men were as tired as was he. And what of this, he thought, the madness of it. Two men skinned and displayed on the trees and a third made to watch then bayoneted open, to die like this, he thought. He ordered a photograph to be taken to record the blasted Finns and their dishonour.

He ordered the remains cut down and buried.

Like

The Third of October, Two Thousand and Thirteen.

The Third of October, Two Thousand and Thirteen.

Oh, let me not hear that black noise again,
The thunderous sound of the small digger,
So brutal it caught me under the skin,
The council have sold us down the river ~

The council have smashed the mural down;
With it the heritage of our city,
A work of art to the fight of welshmen,
That I grew to love in pity,

Pity that the way of things is always
For the common man to have suffered ~
For history is so replete with days,
On which innocents spilled blood for others.

So we will not forget the now silent
Legacy of those men born of violence.


http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-south-east-wales-24386566?SThisFB

Sonnet One.

I think I can see what a sonnet is,
And how I may achieve this technique,
Based upon observing how other's
Form them quite easily and complete.

That was a clumsy way to start I think,
I am getting too bogged down in form,
Ignoring the paths of my heart to link
Any beauty I might like to have shown.

For poetry is about the desire,
To express a feeling, of love or hate,
Or emptiness forlorn, or to conspire
To put society right in a beat ~

But I would like to be free as a bird,
And not be worried about rhyming words.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-south-east-wales-24386566?SThisFB

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-south-east-wales-24386566?SThisFB

Why is this important to you?

I was born and raised in Newport. To have this important and historical document destroyed would be a travesty upon the altar of freedom. Without the Chartist Movement, society would not have advanced towards the democracy that is rapidly being taken away from us, the people, by acts of suppression such as this. The people of Newport want this mural to remain. To have the mural destroyed would rob the future of a specific piece of artistic history that documents an important and defining moment in Newport's history, the history of Wales and Great Britain.
That is important to me and the future of anyone who cherishes freedom of speech.

Jogging ~

My fitness regime has been on and off for a few years now, so it's more of a crumbling infrastructure, with expelled diplomats and hyperinflation than a regime. However, as Daisy is away, I wanted to increase my 'core strength' for the next theatre tour and generally improve the look, not to mention the stamina, of my body.

For the last two weeks I have been very active in the morning and the evening, sit ups, press ups, lifts with weights and an early morning jog around the base. Living on an old RAF base means that there are lots of straight roads with which to throw myself up and down, the relative isolation away from a main road means at half five in the morning, all is still. I believe today I hit the wall. Adorned as usual in my karrimor hiking top and cycling shorts, I bopped down the road on my 'fwams' ~ the name for my large white nike air trainers that I own; wearing them, I feel like the Michelin man or Mr. Soft...and 'fwam' is the sound they make in my head.

My joints became lead and my heart pounded in my chest. I powered on however but I admit, the power wasn't there this morning. I finally staggered back to the house, joints burning and solid, head swimming and a feeling sweeping my senses akin to standing up too quickly after smoking a joint. In short, I was buggered. I spent the next twenty minutes gasping for breath, collapsed on the sofa. Even Millie, my kitten, stayed at the living room door, eyeing me as if I was some dying sea creature. The wall.

Even now, an hour later, I feel as if I have recently recovered from some major surgery. Maybe I'm not meant to be fit and the horrid pear shaped torso I am developing is simply nature's plan for me. Maybe I should stick to the wholly successful development of my mind, through reading and writing. But then I catch a sight of my podge, my borderline moobs and the rolls of skin when I sit down...I am determined to get rid of those at least. Daisy thinks that this exercise is a good thing. She is twenty six and a size 6. I'm not so shallow to think that unless I get ripped like Hugh Jackman I will lose her beautiful self, but I think she would appreciate a boyfriend who needs a belt for his trousers, as opposed to a paunch sitting like an outcrop of proud headland.

Walls can be scaled after all.

Willow

We headed for the broken house,
Eager and ready,
Stealing was our aim ~

Swathes of felled willow branches,
Alive on the dead bonfire,
Green and vibrant in the sun
A chance to continue our regeneration
Rummagers we are, using what's left behind.

It would cost hundreds Daisy explained,
Choosing the strongest branches,
To get this stuff in, but it's growth hormone
Is an elixir in gardening circles.

Deftly she rolled them into coils,
Filling several bags ~
I kept watch over the fields
For signs of misunderstandings.

And back to the car her heart
In her throat, bags of willow and nothing
But white vans on the road ~
Surely the owners of the dump returned.

But no, nothing but the road then
Desolate in Scottow. An unexpected shine
Of autumn's last act, and willow for us
To grow again, a fence to weave.

Throughout she smiled, knowing her
Choice was more than saving those coins.
"I'll use the thinner vines to tie" she said,
"So that the willow is guided the right way"

Benchmark ~

28 April 2013 at 09:37

    He fumbled for his keys. He had made a specific point of placing them definitely on his person. He thought with an awful honest plunge that he had lost them again. He paused at the door of the bungalow. All was silent. The sky was empty. A light moved only. In his stupor such moments gave him great pause. He teetered absently,the silence around him. It was comforting and he relished it. All worry faded and he forgot about his keys. He felt calmness. A calmness that he could never express to another. It would be beyond him, even sober, to express. It was childlike in many ways, like being safe and sound in the back of a family car.But he could only imagine such things. His own father had left him; his mother had placed him in many institutions over the years. He had a brother somewhere.Mumbling these useless memories he automatically grasped his keys and went inside. Above, the light had moved on and disappeared.
   When he came to,for he always came to, he never woke up, the temporary feeling of despair erupted upon his being, that he had done it again, that he drank, that he had no idea what day it was. That he was clothed and that he had pissed himself. At such times he was glad to be alone. It was one of the reasons why he was. The opening of his eyes was a rip of light into his dumbfounded world, the great challenge, the first step into another day. Opening his eyes. After this leap,his head responded, the awful bitter cruel thump at the very centre of his brain, a hot needle, then cold, spasming in all directions. It was dehydration of course. The brain itself minutely shrunken, causing pain between matter and skull. He didn’t know this. He didn’t know the pragmatisms of his ailment any more certainly than the reason why he even drank. He was primordial and sent his hand outwards to grasp something, phone, bottle. There was some left. He never really planned for there to be some left for the morning. It was another primordial reaction, a ground in function like needing warmth and shelter. He didn’t even look at the bottle, nor did he relish particularly the taste of the cider that passed over his awful tongue. Just that hit. Immediate. The alcohol from the day before fired up by more. The flow dwindled to a trickle. He placed his tongue into the bottle, getting every last drop. All this was before he had sat up. The booze began to ease the lead of his limbs and he raised himself slowly onto his elbows. The room looked grim. It looked unfinished. It sat there, utterly mute, with its piles of clothes, ashtrays empty cans and wine bottles like the writing on the wall. It was death to look at. This room, its squalor, was like inhabiting death. He didn’t think of it like this at the time of the day. Those revelations always came later. When he had once tried to be profound, when he had been given an insight briefly, he had scrawled on a bench in the garden, ‘welcome to the nightmare of life’.These progressions took time and he was in the process of medicating at this point. Sitting up changed everything. The world went from side to side a little. He turned his head upon its aching neck and saw the time. 07:23. But he was awake now. He never slept for more than a couple of hours.
   To his utter surprise he saw an unopened bottle of white wine. He had planned ahead after all, just like the keys. He tumbled forward, arms on wet jean legs and breathed deeply, head down. He dozed for a quarter of an hour, only being snapped awake by his body nearly giving into his fatigue, and then he was set again on his purpose. The wine was all he cared about, all he wanted. When he placed his hand around its neck, the smooth lines of the glass seemed other worldly,greatly comforting and for a moment he paused to appreciate the form. The bottle was perfect, the pale yellow liquid within gently sparkled in a sunbeam.He click, click, clicked the lid off and pursed his lips over the neck. It feltl ike ambrosia, hitting his filthy palette and striking such pleasure that he groaned as it pumped, mechanically, down his throat. He didn’t come up for air. His first bottle of the day was finished at 07:30. It didn’t touch the sides. After the hits of the slugs died down, the wine shifted its gears on him,  cohearsing the alcohol of the night before and creating an effect akin to being stoned. He began to wake up. He began to feel good. He stood up straight with a click here and there. Optimism and good feeling raced over his senses. He would clean up today. He wouldn’t need another, he felt fine. Unsteady on his feet but confident, he went to the bathroom to sort out the soiled clothes. The sun continued to shine in. The room seemed to breathe with him. This room was his. He had confidence. He had a whole world.

The other world ~

The other world ~

Tuesday, 25 June 2013

The other world,
Sense forming sense,

Love arriving into bedlam ~
A heaven,

A place of our altar,
A hedonism into dusk,

Love becoming,
The world waits ~

With breath,

You are mine.

Rising Camp ~ Michael, The Happy Dancer

Rising Camp - The Complete Michael the Happy Dancer

During most of last year and the beginning of this year, I was housed in a hostel for people with addiction problems. During my rehabilitation I met many people. Here is one of them ~

February 16th 2013 A delightful young man, fallen on hard times, has taken up residence at the hostel. He's a struggling dancer. Such was my affiliation with his plight, I let him put his milk in my fridge.

February 22nd 2013 Michael, the dance student down the hall, showed off his cut and blow dry last night. I must admit, he looked stunning. Purple really is his colour.

March 3rd 2013 Michael, the delightful student dancer, was showing me his swanky phone earlier. I warned him not to flash it around the hostel, 'no-one messes with me' he said, 'if I get angry, I get pissed off. I got my friend down on the ground the other day for pissing me off. She didn't do it again'.

March 4th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was again in the communal kitchen earlier, as I was defrosting my supper. 'My ex fiancée is bothering me,' he began, oblivious to my disinterest, 'We were together a month. If he comes round here, I'll scratch his eyes out' - I certainly wouldn't want to be the ex. Michael has the longest, sharpest, most expensively manicured fingernails I've ever seen.

March 5th 2013 Whislt scrambling an egg this morning, Michael, the happy dancer, came into the kitchen with a young man in tow, 'This is Darren' he began, oblivious to my disinterest, ' my ex. We've made up haven't we?' 'I don't know' Darren said, eyeing me up in my dressing gown and bed hair, 'is there a room going?' - I shall prepare breakfast in my room henceforth.

March 8th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, came back from a dance class earlier. 'Some blokes heckled me from a scaffold as I got off the bus!' I can't imagine why, the leotard wasn't that revealing.

March 10th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was discussing his work experience placement at his college earlier. 'I'll be in the bakery, selling what I make in the canteen.' - He then proceeded to demonstrate his sausage roll.

March 11th 2013 So, the DWP think I haven't lived at the hostel for the past few months. They sent the letter to inform me of this here, to the address they claim not to have. I shall send them a photograph of me, and Michael the happy dancer, waving infront of the building.

March 15th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, knocked on my door earlier, rousing me from my depressed stupor. 'Do you have a match? My sink is clogged. Darren is eager to see into my ubend. He needs to light up my pipe' - 'Oh come on,' I replied, ' that's a crude and obvious double entendre.' - 'not at all' he continued, ' we were shagging on the sink earlier and I knocked over the pot pourri' .

March 16th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was having coffee with me in the communal lounge earlier, when the conversation turned to gay marriage. 'Im a person aren't I?' he began, ' I have every right to marry the man I love.' I agreed and asked if that would be on the cards with Darren. He became unusually thoughtful, 'Darren is young. He has a lot to learn about the heart of a man' - I'll admit that this empassioned observation was moving, but would have been slightly more effective if he wasn't wearing a hip length satin dressing gown and bunny slippers, with his hair in a towel.

 March 18th 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was showing me his routine for a review he is doing at his college in the communal lounge earlier. 'It's to the music of Cheryl Cole' he began, 'fight for this love'. He then played the music on his phone and executed a number of vigorous gyrations and hand clenchings, drawing back into a fist at his chest, before twisting his hips like he was using a hula hoop and creeping towards me on all fours like a cat. I was flattered and moderatley uncomfortable. The two workman putting up scaffolding outside the window broke into applause.

March 21st 2013 Michael, the happy dancer, was expressing his sadness at me leaving the hostel tomorrow. 'You've been a friend' he began, 'and haven't judged me like my family did. You've accepted me for who I am.' Nervously, he reached for a hug and I reciprocated, getting a mouthful of feathers from his boa. 'Perhaps we can keep in touch?' he continued, 'on facebook?' I idly wiped his lipstick from my cheek, 'Oh, I never use it' I said, 'I never use it'. 

Dreams ~

9^th August ~ Woke up this morning from dreams of school again to find Mille nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in her furry bed, or wrestling with the chest of drawers as usual. Fearing the worst, I jumped up and rushed to the garden, the tail from my Dalmatian onesy that I sleep in swishing to and fro. Not in the garden. Back in the kitchen, I decided to check the house...what followed was a montage of doors to various rooms and cupboards being opened with lights flickering on. To no avail, I returned from the'Graham Greene Appreciation Lounge' to the kitchen. As the lift door opened, I thought I'd have to do it. Enter the living room. I don't go in there at present, as the balancing presence of Daisy is temporarily absent, causing the forces that live in there to be unsettled. It's like the green screen effects of Tobe Hooper's 1982 classic 'Poltergeist' in there, and I have often had to duck and roll to avoid being struck by a flying 'Star Wars' toy. I have however, stored the properties for the show against the far wall. Entering gingerly ( I always have to don a huge curly ginger wig to disguise myself from the forces at work ) I saw with alarm a work table set up, paint tins opened and the radio tuned to classic fm...Millie was touching up the few props I had had to rush the night before, mewing in time to the 'Bolero' as she did so. For a moment we looked at each other silently. I slowly removed the wig so she could recognise me ( and was promptly hit on the forehead by Han Solo encased in carbonite that you had to send off for with vouchers. ) and tutted promptly.Whilst I appreciate her help, she hasn't got opposable thumbs and hence, can't hold a paintbrush correctly. The finesse was lost. I had to repaint.

11^th August ~ Woke up from dreams of school again to find Millie sat on my chest, staring into my eyes. I got up, made coffee and her breakfast, whilst all the time Millie sauntered behind me, to then position herself on a chair to again gaze into my eyes. Upstairs, checking the day's online bitchiness, she sat on the occasional table (which I occasionally use like a pretend steering wheel when I imagine I'm driving an Aston Martin as James Bond) to further peer into my eyes. Looking up, I glanced into my 'Cheeses of Norfolk' map mirror to see that the mascara from yesterday's performance of 'Dalmatians' had smudged in the night (I often leave it on to make myself look like Gary Numan) giving me the appearance of a hung over Panda that had recently been dug up by Gene Simmons. Thank goodness she pointed it out to me before I went to Church today. Although, to be fair, the vicar often borrows my stage makeup to go to sex jamborees in Suffolk.

12^th August ~ Woke up from dreams of needing the toilet in public places to find cubicles with no lock again, to find Millie nowhere to be seen. With horror, I leapt out of bed and rushed to the open window. The netting I had placed there to let air in but keep kittens safe was fluttering on the lawn below. "Millie!!" I called, rushing downstairs to the garden. Nothing. I stood in the morning air, my dressing gown undone, a cool August breeze dancing meditatively around my testicles, "Morning..." said Linda, our neighbour, with a look of restrained shock on her face. Inside, I found Millie again in the living room. She had set up my old PSOne and was loading 'Medal of Honor'...she looked at me with her big rich eyes and mewed. I felt sorry for her. It's a classic game but without opposable thumbs, she couldn't hope to operate the controller correctly.

14^th August ~ Woke up from horrid dreams of school again to find I had lashed out in my sleep, bopping Millie on the nose as she lay on the pillow next to me. Poor kitten. We aren't talking at the moment. She's sat drinking her coffee in the Colorado lounge with her back to me. Of course without opposable thumbs she can't grasp the mug properly.

15^th August ~ Woke up from dreams of being slowly drowned in an iron maiden to find Millie nowhere to be seen. I leapt up (making sure my testicles were hidden this time) and hunted around calling her name...nothing. After searching outside in the maze, past the topiary animals and the croquet court, I returned through the north entrance, ignoring Hallorann who was lying on the floor, through the kitchen. Eventually I made it upstairs to find her snuggled up with Joseph, who had stayed the night after the soiree the evening before. Purring contentedly, she glanced up at me with disdain. Incredulous, I decided that neither of them would be getting breakfast. However, as Joseph doesn't have opposable thumbs, I don't know how he'd tackle the eggs benedict anyway without making a mess.

16^th August ~ Wokaupa froma sleepa to finda that Ima speaking likea Manwell froma FawltyTowers...Millie nowherea to be a seeny. I goes down to the .... que???The...'living room' and shes a sleepy on the soofa. I kick her offasoofa....she gets back on the soofa, I kick her offa. Misssster Fawlty no likethe cat hair on the soofa...then I find Millie hasa been in the...que??? 'Fridge'and to drinka ALL the milk! Buta without errr....que? 'opposable thumbs' she noholda the milk properlys anyways.

19^th August ~ Woke up from dreams of surfing behind helicopters in Vietnam again, to find Millie nowhere to be seen. After her greeting at my homecoming last night, I was surprised that I was on the hunt around the house for her. I entered the kitchen, deserted, aside from Millie's breakfast of quail and orange juice: untouched. Quickly, I turned on the internal CCTV system and scanned the various parts of Barton House : the billiard room, nothing, the pool house, nothing, the Aldous Huxley Library, empty, the Jim Davidson dental ward, nothing; but then, I saw a tail slink around a corner of the opening to the Rothko Room. I hit the internal camera. Millie hates the abstracts. She had spent the night turning the massive paintings to the wall and drawing her own representations on the backs. I admit, her rendition entitled 'litter tray at dawn' was remarkably accurate, done in the garconne style. But of course, without opposable thumbs, the lines were crap.

21^st August ~ Woke from dreams of fighting rubber lizards in a slightly camera tinteddesert landscape to find Millie nowhere to be seen. Her furry bed was empty and the MG was missing from the garage. Worried, I leapt onto the Harley and activated the homing beacon, racing down country lanes in a montage of revolving wheels, the speedometer gaining speed and the road ahead. Suddenly, as I screeched around Dead Man's Curve, there, infront, the MG was off the road. Millie sat on the bonnet, gazing at me with her big green eyes. Unhurt.

Time has passed and we don't talk of the accident. Millie goes about her business unwilling or unable to discuss the reason why she tore away, on a desperate escape mission, or a flight of fancy. The car is fine, undamaged. The investigation into the accident sits on my desk, Millie sees it and nonchalantly slinks away, feigning disinterest. But I know. I know what she is thinking. Paragraph three reads : ' MG undamaged. It is this investigator's opinion that the car left the road due to negligence of the driver and that not having opposable thumbs was a definite factor in the car losing control.'

S.M.Morgan 2013

Further Dreams ~ 

Woke up from dreams of solving the Acle Old People's Retirement Village Sandwich and Scone Caper (it was the janitor! All along! Of course, there was only one set of keys after all) to find Millie nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in the massage tray or in the conversation jar, so I called down to Mellors, the temporary groundsman, to ask if he had seen her,

"E, my John Thomas!! My old John Thomas!"

Disgruntled, I decided to walk the grounds and attempt to locate her again. The swans were basking by the lake and I paused to take in the scene. It was a beautiful autumnal morning, golden and bright. The bison herd meandered across the plain and even the flamingoes seemed happy. Above, flocks of Canada geese sauntered across the sky, heading south, and even the lonely parachutist, hung from the branches of the tall oak looked up from his kindle and called a "good morning!" ~ all was peaceful.

Finally, I reached the summer house. And there she was, of course, how could I forget? Today was her modelling class. A group sat in a semi circle, copying the items placed on the pedestal in the centre; a vase, two oranges and the most challenging item, a snow shoe. The teacher wandered amongst them, nodding and quietly offering advice. But there, Millie perched, her work suddenly revealed as I entered, caught mid sculpt, green eyes wide. Aghast, the teacher edged away slowly...a gasp rippling around the other students. Millie simply began to wash herself. On her little table was a collection of sculpted thumbs, thumbs, thumbs, thumbs; human thumbs modelled from clay.
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'Woke up from dreams of being chased by Molly Ringwald from the movie 'Sixteen Candles' to find that Millie had refilled her litter tray with muesli. Or was it the box of muesli with kitty litter? Either way, it goes well with a banana....' ~

Simon M.Morgan first started incorporating his kitten Mildred into facebook posts in July 2013. Since then, the two have become world famous, with a television show, 'Paws for Thought' aswell as a hit movie, 'Star Trek, Into Darkness' in which Millie starred as Benedict Cumbersnatch's hair, numerous television adverts, internet virals and political campaigns. Relaxing in her New York apartment, Millie spoke of her process,
"To me, the art is the writing. You have to be able to paint satire convincingly, otherwise the message is lost. That's what my message is about, making statements about the detritus of the common man. Feed me."
Currently, Millie is working on a new series of 'Paws for Thought' with her opposable thumb assistant, whilst Simon can be seen by opening your eyes and looking at him.

They live in Norfolk with the gardenist Monty Don.

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Woke up from opium induced night terrors about huge ear lobes, to find Millie nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in the Victorian Iron Lung I had picked up from Looses and converted into a comfortable kitten cwtch, nor was she in her study, working on her kitten chocolate formula. Concerned, I called to the new groundsman, Tom, who believes he is a character in a Pinter play, and asked if he had seen Millie this morning,

"No"

Pause.

I then asked if he would let me know when she sauntered around,

Pause.

"I lived on the old Kent Road once. In this bedsit. Couldn't get the work see...to...afford a nice place..."

Pause.

"Have you any cigarettes?"

Pause.

"I couldn't..."

Pause.

"Get the work for a nicer place."

Pause.

"I got plans."

Pause.

"Had plans then and got them now"

Pause.

"Could murder a cigarette, if you've got one"

Pause.

"Do you have a cigarette?"

Pause.

Eventually, I hung up to find Millie relaxing in the latex hammock, snoozing away oblivious to the morning ritual of hunting for her, a copy of 'The Caretaker' nestling between her

Paws.

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Woke up from dreams of chasing plastic bags and an endless supply of kibbles to find Simon and Daisy nowhere to be seen. I called their names (I haven't yet mastered the absurd language, seems to be all cooing and babytalk, even to each other) and jumped down from my number four daytime nap place (the windowsill overlooking the garden) to hunt for them. After twenty minutes stalking and attacking a sock, I continued looking through the house. Barton House is large, even for a 4lb kitten, but that aren't too many places they could hide. They weren't in their night time lie down place (that they seem to stay in until well past my breakfast time) they weren't in the large water place (that Simon stands in each morning to try to master his 'singing') or the food place. After ten minutes investigating the food place I noticed I was near to number five daytime napping place, ontop of the sofa. I'm sure they'll turn up when they get hungry. Trying to type this without opposable thumbs has tired me out. I hope they bring more kibbles ~ Millie

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   Woke up from dreams of being marooned in a giant kitty litter tray to find Millie nowhere to be seen. She wasn't in the editing suite where I had left her last night (we're working on a short film noir) or working on her motorbike. Alarmed, I texted her but no reply. I tried calling, again, no answer. Turning on the laptop, there, she appeared as a screensaver. In the night she had somehow gotten into the computer through a USB port, no doubt looking for kibbles, but without opposable thumbs, she couldn't press the disc release button and escape. Kittens! They get everywhere!

   
   

   

   
   
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   More posts fr1

Woke up from dreams of being trapped down the back of a giant sofa to discover it had its own self contained shopping centre, ('Loose Change and Chips!') to find Millie nowhere to be seen. 

She wasn't in the studio, working on her clawed rendition of the cast of Star Trek from the episode 'Space Seed' (Khan needs work, right now he looks like a pony tailed David Cameron) nor was she in the bath, perfecting her campus technique on the shower curtain.

Perplexed, I went down to the temporary groundsman, Jonathan, who was stood in the shadows in a trench coat and trilby, smoking surreptitiously in by the bean wigwam. He believes he is narrating a crime novel. I asked if he had seen Millie this morning,

"He came up to me, tired, worried...he had the kind of look that said, 'I could moider some breakfast', but hell, I'd seen enough of moider, enough to last a lifetime...he was cold, no slippers, no socks, the kind of feet that said, 'I could moider some shoes' but I'd seen enough of shoes, the moider at the Clarks factory stayed with me, eating away at my waking moments like a goldfish in a bowl of Cherrios. He'd asked me if I'd seen Millie, 'no' I said, 'your broad? I had a broad once, a looker, she had the kind of look that said, 'I'm all yours for the right price' we weren't talking no Sunday morning stroll to Waitrose to buy some pot plants, capiche? She was a heart breaker, her price was the kind of money that didn't fold in the pocket, that always left you wanting more sugar in the coffee, more whiskey in the cold dark empty hell holes downtown; Moira, Moira...Moira was moidered, snapped out, she'd tried to kill me with a hairbrush, our one night together...Jesus...what a ride...but this ain't no choir boy love story friend, no story with a happy ending, life is hard pal, you have to look it in the eye, the kind of look that says, 'I ain't taking no crap off you', like a moider, a cold calculating moider, ah..Moira...I still have the hairbrush, couldn't hate her y'see, still have her hair too, made a wig, gives me a look, the kind of look that says, 'Hi sailor, new in town?' but this ain't no sunday school picnic friend...it has a look, the kind of look that says..."

I left him muttering and wandered the grounds. The bison were moving calmly across the horizon and the gnu enclosure looked lovely, having recently been re-wallpapered. The flamingos too had really mastered their line dancing routine, some taking a break to play ping pong. Even the parachutist was in good spirits, cooking himself an omelette as he gently hung from the tree, whistling the theme from '633 Squadron'.

I gingerly approached the summer house. Millie had recently been quite secretive about it's use, spending more and more time in the evening there. Plus, there had been deliveries that I wasn't allowed to open, parcels and packages. Well, I was about to find out. I slowly opened the door and went in.

All around were test tubes bubbling away, apparatus connected to each other, Bunsen burners, flasks of liquid...a blackboard held cryptic writings, symbols, paw prints and there, in a tiny white lab coat and goggles, was Millie. She slowly put down the clipboard as my gaze fell onto what she was working on.

On a table, tied down, was a robot version of myself. Where the hands should have been were two bowls full of kibbles. The stomach area was a huge bag of kibbles, that replenished the hand bowls all the time. The legs? Scratching posts. The head was a tin box with a crude photocopy of my face stuck on to the front, obviously acquired while I was asleep.

We stared at each other until an alarm went off, kibbles suddenly pouring into my bowl hands and onto the floor, breaking the tension.