I’m am just a story teller this story might be incoherent but then again the majority of the characters are. It’s a work of fiction and the places you find familiar are merely a coincidence or a residual memory of something you have dreamt of. For a point of reference it’s set in the 1970’s.
there was once a bluebell wood in a parish community in the north of the land. In this great estate lay a woodland carpeted in majestic blue carpet. The fauna and flora were spectacular and all of natures bounty and abundance and beauty that one could wish or want for. Even in my minds eye, I couldn’t imagine a better place than this. As the roar of modern industry echoed from down south .I could almost feel the tremors of tumours the parasite that some would consider progress ,as the old ploughs and old ways lay disused and forgotten, whilst the birds squawk over head.
“it’s almost as if they taunt me like a savage parrot in cage suffering from Tourette ’s manically repeating the same vocal line . like their point was more important than anybody else’s, shouting until their cacophony silenced the orchestra”.
As the earth turns I reawaken tilting on my own axis to compensate for my still sleepy legs.the front page of the newspaper left on my door mat warns of a war looming large started by mere mortals with an obsession of ruling the world and recasting the world in their image. A god complex that afflicts so many men, driving some mad with a passion to control not only nature but all other men. I now sit staring at these fields where a lone tree stands surrounded by stumps cut to the ground. The once great blue carpet brushed and burnt by the midday sun.the instruments of science chime that it might be a sunny day… I Like My eggs over easy ,my disposition is as far remove from that sentence as it could be. Next to me a letter with familiar handwriting, I haven’t seen in many moons, I haven’t the stomach or the inclination to read it.
After my collapse, I neither remembered who I was and was beyond caring about what others said I was,when Humanity is reduced to base levels we soon see how People act and react in some cases like animals in cages , just as buildings crumble we see what people would do….just to survive or take flight or the endless fight, even a set of false porcelains tarnish with age , the veneers of youth fall away.
As The letter She’d scribbled stares at me and is sent flying up into the air as the telephone rings. I mutter and curse I try to reorganized my thoughts. I hit the answer phone button “Beep” it cuts in just in time.
“Tar for the books on war and for asking me around, after the bill had hit the ground will these shock waves last for ever more? it’s good to know your being the person they always dreamed you’d be rather than the real you.”
The answer phone message made no sense, I hadn’t seen her in 5 years the world she now inhabits was never mine and I doubt it was hers she always comes and goes and I never wished to cage her,the rings we had worn are long gone, now even the shadow where those rings were had faded. The thrill ride of a roller coaster relationship is a heady mix, they will spit you out and knock you down off that pedestal even before the new clothes have been fitted from the tailors for the big day, before that 15 minutes in the sun burns you and they all look burnt now That moment gone the loving feeling forgotten or just locked away or merely there for the fake smiles for the new man family.
I start talking to myself ” I’m not answering that phone again. it’s a stay at home day, Sod off world I’m not here, the answer phone can suffice if she needs somebody to talk too she can go and talk to the men of very little words and vacant stares of possession of fragile soulless souls.”
the only asteroid and stars we will see, are probably with Mr whips and leather and his fetish ball syndrome when he looses his temper and blows like that volcano. I wish her anger and any guilt away, the remnants of the foolish pride of a twisted broken man. I can’t apologise for the moments that was I never there for or what he did. Im now aware of more of the story I wish to of known before the start and wish to hide away. Sadly I not a time traveller and can’t turn the clocks back.
I’m staying away from her not the other way round. Right now my coping mechanisms and defences are down and out . She was never a bad penny merely broken. Him and the mother hen who lost her spitting feathers, plotting in empty parking lots as she goes for a walk in her pajamas a strange outfit for someone to wear who feels the cold on a spring evening with the motor running. I don’t think she thought I d offer her to accompany her on that walk. the grass looks green over there says the statistic, the bowling green manicured to the point of boredom to me it looks like grounds keeper needs retraining. I doubt the reality is what she sold in the time share brochure. apparently the sales man was first class the wares well ? The trade descriptions act would have had a field day. They often use alcohol as a sales technique. I’m coming to conclusion that woman I feel in love with was never there or merely a mirage of the perfect storm that lay in wait.
A trophy hanging from my wall, the atrophy of paralysis and fear, the smiles for the camera with friends, what was real ? and what was just melodrama for her carousal parasol. The stage show life , Some people treat life like a stage and the people they meet merely the players.
Her silhouette picture much like a wall hanging in a period piece made for Television a Jane Austen novel sits next to it. the reality of those written words not the edit for the masses with 45 minute commercial inserted between Those moments caught on those disposable cameras they, Remind me of the person I once knew and all those silver lining moments we shared. the person they were trying to fashion and contrive for a sadist on his long weekend off. It would have been nice to of known the woman from Fife maybe fifteen to twenty years before. but our paths never crossed and the bridge never came forth for me to cross it’s all just a dream. I can’t rewind the tape they hit the play button on a long time ago and then smashed the control booth shortly after in a fit of rage.
The insects not only infected and infest us all, they burrowed into our very psyche. As he tore those old paper hangings off the walls. a game of pool on the broken now torched bed, an 8 bit ball speaking drug induced predictions brought from a charity store. The lottery ticket never existed as he rampaged through their belongs looking to clone A life. The real prize his get of jail card. He really did think carrying a card from monopoly would set him free, the a alibi of another Persons life to be photo shopped in a cut copy paste movement on a photocopier ,The paintings placed back on the wall carefully. the woman sitting under the shower a bag being packed full of cash with joint bank account now empty red knickers and the base of the heels to match whilst away the only sign of tampering the police tape to secure a crime scene now fashioned to the back of the prints of boats brought in a junk store for the cost of a weeks tobacconist only visible sign of entry the smashed gate swinging in the breeze. The internet sending broken transmissions out.
go ahead shake it, shake it shake it oh look you can’t see the future and can’t future proof what you can’t predict especially when they all ready have a script that they are all working towards when we are on a different page. All I can do is write my own and live it even with my back to a wall I’m working outside of the realm they are inhabiting the as fast as you drive, your minds won’t keep pace spiral .the chemicals they consume and taste put paid to free thoughts and any concept of love along time ago, much like lemmings free form dancing off the cliff tops.
enjoy the script which is your life with no direction, for the time being known as the chaos & calm. the suppressed emotions the anger management from father, daughter tissue ending to your story I saw a sneak preview right at the start. It is as dark as the night sky. you don’t even want to see the cutting room floor edit ,that seven month itch.
The Marilyn Monroe look a like but not quite , she wasn’t his just for the night. they seem to be acting out their favourite move scenes which have done over and over again. They almost seemed surprised that the same results happen each teatime psychologist would say it’s the definition of insanity, eventual it will be his requiem. Same film, different cast that favourite game called control alt delete but the system currently cant be rebooted or overridden no matter how much I chase and try to turn this long running story around chasing rainbows and a happy ending seem so far away in this dark man made hole.
Apparently according to the talk of the empty wine glasses to the wall, the eves droppers “she’s not happy , not happy with that loathsome man” The net curtain bridge players brigade might be out in force tonight who knows! rather than doing anything about this subject of unhappiness they would be home Warm milk in hand soap opera story’s and the arrogant oblivion to all the pain caused. we may never know the truth it’s a slippery slope. the ticker tape parade of the news seems rather international than regional, the accents change fluidly I feel I’m forever chasing my shadow and I’m a hundred steps behind everyone else, some would say as a story teller I’m naive but at least I’m not a pawn in this man’s game.
The smog was unbearable, the toaster had caught fire . apparently the guests were expecting a banquet . A dinner for one the devil brought a white loaf, a needle and some pocket change. the desert was the young woman he just grabbed fresh off the street making her way home. The grab was opportunistic to say the least , the parameters undefinable the excuses suspect. The old house had none of its charm of its grandiose glory days the peep holes crudely inserted with shotgun blasts .for paying punters with their idle hands and tubs of lube had put paid to that fact. that and his punk rock rave anarchy obsession.
the stacks of left over mail for the tenants that were lucky enough to get out of this town before the torment and its torrents arrived . the shotgun casings from the man scaring the presence away the wall paper peeling ,the hole in the roof was leaking, the buckets over flowing and the stolen TV set on the blink . there’s a bad vibe about this place , not realising he just seen himself in a cracked mirror surrounded by cherubs, in the hallway as he stalked through like a stranger in this land the home was never his.
Out westward the sun falls fast. And anybody with any sense is home , far from this place that man that lurks in the dark looking for the presence of a dark overlord the shrunken record baked and shrunk in the oven until it’s a almost like a talisman from which he hangs around his neck.
from the road the property is not even visible hidden by rickety fences and set of trees that lead up to the wooden clad house, the lead paint undercoat showing through .if you could call it home you might if you had untrained eye,It looked more like a scrap yard lined up with broken variants of Austin sevens,Morris minors, Leyland parts of omnibuses an obsessional collection more to do with the name than the vehicles themselves.
in the rear view mirror of one hangs, a Child’s puppet dangling in the breeze. a wild dog once somebody’s pet lurches at its chain he’s sodden from the rain trying to break its own neck in the desperation to getaway. The cats everywhere with glowing eyes lighten up by the half moon light and fluorescent street lamp ripped from a street made famous in a photo somewhere.
The young girl barely eight or nine currently blindfolded in possession of and older woman’s passport .like that would convince the world if he was caught. Satchel in her hand gripped until her knuckles turned white like a pneumatic drill operators tearing through the Tarmac. He didn’t want her to merely talk too.
A hushed tone from down the hall, the makeshift incandescent strip lighting blinking in and out of life, hanging from the ceiling the old school desks collected from an closing down auction. he had carefully nailed to the now collapsing buildings ceiling ,he had always wanted to be the professor and run a school for the gifted the man’s delusion was evident and may have been influenced by comics that or home made medicine.
their lids all standing to attention. The dulcimer plucked with the silver spoon baked black like the chalkboard with his manic zero one zero seven . the musical scores scattered across the floor. The telephone left off the hook the dialling tone ringing out. The violin smashed and burnt.
The man stormed down the hall leaving the child alone. Into the scary void of light the old projection unit which was running had cast it perpetual movements. through the room onto the bare walls where now empty picture frames hang. The film playing shows A woman gyrating and stripping her red dress off which was reminiscent of a priests cassock underneath her bodice as she does so her wig moves askew , the bandages of bondage falling to the floor to reveal her strap on. the man sitting in his chair sluing and making obscene gestures for his primeval urges,whilst loosing his belt , like all his birthdays were about to come at once he beckons the stripper to choke him at full throttle the woman reaches for her silver revolver and shots the man point blank range in the Eye. In the background another woman obviously in pain hand cuffed to an old metal bed frame stolen from a abandoned hospital, the sound of the flogging of whips of skin and old wire and screams echoing out of the broken speaker. The film repeats on a endless loop..
the little girl recognises her dead mother from the photo on the mantel piece at her grandparents home. the one the child psychologist had made promises to her that she’d return and had just gone on a short holiday, her memory now permanently scarred. The programming of a childhood they had tried to erase for so long now reawakened, Pandora was alive and the elephant was no longer silent he was bearing down tusks ready.
She sobbed and the warmth of a her bladder trickled down her skirt dripping down between the floorboards , Into the vacant dungeon below. In the corner of the room a upright red generic chest freezer for sodas ,in it the contents growing a black mouldy bloom with mushrooms sprouting across the skull of the previous tenant his hat now replaced with a dunces cone and a can of rotten princes ham now green, his red striped top now worn like a badge of pride by a plastic skeleton hanging from an old coat stand stolen from a medical examination room in a far off land .
” The games he plays to confuse us all , his footman trawling around, the put it in your pipe and small talk the night away. they pass people around like their pipes whilst suing for the fragility of peace” that loan shark mentality.
Its a put it in your cake ,shake and bake it moment. A caught on camera with chocolate around his face, sticky fingers everywhere. much like being found with blood on his hands at a crime scene he was caught with his hand in the jar and couldn’t remove it there was no going back.
In the Movies it would be called a fair cop, but apparently money talks ,that and the old school tie , you scratch her back ,system of barter and trade apparently the deal was done over a game of cards. The sore loser shouldn’t gamble if he can’t except he was bested by a woman.
the crystal of wyn the witch echo around the room,
“nothing like slander to take the shine off taking an idiots money. It’s like money for old rope.” The child she lost was not hers merely a chip in a roulette game.
with complete disregard for that Line ,the flowers in her hair the time warp we once lived in, an atom bomb of a world that shocked me. now sold on for a song .The telegraph poles with their wires like something old but new, She looked black and blue and barely looked like her passport photo and nothing like the bride the man had actually married being only a child.
The old egg timer with pink sand and the blockade of the motorway no rhyme or reason just an old fashion getaway .I needed more words not a game of Pictionary
the child ran through the open window towards the light away from the oblivion.
attack, attack a breach of the sea defences and the heavy burden, the dominoes the ripples of the dragon in a bowl the paint on the floor only a Jacobs ladder could out do this cream cracker. the graphs, maps & charts on the wall the shell shock.01010101 the saviour they sacrificed. The never ending gallows humour , the patient currently locked away could never materialise to save her. And no one would believe him anyway the mans been classed a first class loony and fantasist Even though they themselves take the seat at the head of the table at the mad hatters tea party.
This sabbatical Sabbath .the lick a flick of her hair, there were childhood games and Monopoly money. they blew the real fortune along time ago and have been playing Peter Paul ever since.
“I hope you know I once you cared as I untangle a cats cradle of this story” I said to myself
this manipulation enshrined like a rock carving some say learned behaviour .that scale model you wished to own and enslave, to carve your looking glass the futures that you don’t yet know picture you can never own on that gallery wall. To own it does it mean you understood the content or merely appreciate the pretty colours.
andromeda lullabies for this static that reverberated through your senses this muse that wept tears of for the desert rose and those that try to break this world in two.
Did you ever find her tea chest in a place you shouldn’t be he asks menacingly . Did you find wool for your hair to replace the locks you picked from her .I know that you try to pull the wool over my eyes.hang those keys from your hair. Did you find those words that weren’t yours? Left on his personal computer, did you enjoy watching him sing you his lullabies?.
So go don’t go! I’m beyond caring. if you wish to pack your things you should, just know you should just let it go. it’s been a stop start love affair without the bells and whistles and grand show tunes, time you see is a finite thing and you just take pleasure from wasting mine whilst wishing our lives away. She can’t speak for fear the man seems to have anger issues which he can’t resolve with the root cause a person who ran a long time ago, she’s merely a makeshift doppelgänger born twenty years after the event happened.
it was the early hours of a Saturday morning 12.01 am I can’t sleep so I take a walk and walk past what can only be describe as a neon lit door.the pharmacy horses rutting in the doorway.
these sleep disturbances danced around my head like a loony tune cartoons again .yet there are no stars overhead .I think to myself of these streets that are endless that I now walk .Bars and night clubs emptying out revellers throwing up half their weeks wages waiting for the blues to kick in, the night buses ferrying them home. the television sets in the window are a nuance a distraction.
the old film running is of the noir variety I’ve seen before black and white with the sound turn down and subtitles on,the other sets showing the test card clown. I switch back and forth and spin around seeing the dancing girls leaving there shifts for home , the weather and the reality of the yesterday’s daily news blowing down the street.
The letter I should leave for the next man by a abandoned car the windows smashed in. The doors wide open the engine burnt out its window wipers up, it’s mental like analogue analytic the slipstream long gone. if this was top trump you wouldn’t want that car.
a tin can rattles as it rolls down the windswept street. I maybe lost I say to myself, I keep walking all roads lead home eventually .was it left or right ? where’s the bread trail to the candy cane ending , probably eaten up long time ago, just strewn chips and seagulls and a busking man.
The plastic bags sail over head like ships leaving the port chancing that the harbour masters warnings will pass .the red wine synonymous with this whirl.this road is a dead end and they know it, the sound bites speak for themselves.
my throat now coarse from shouting at the top of my lungs, the sirens roar by to another street crime. Breaking news the phone in my pocket rings. I select the silence button if only I could silence the cog that whirled..
I snap too from the day dream of dragons it was a television show that taught me of fight or flight. the adrenaline pumping the brawl I’m witnessing as the law rally around is epic ,the claret coarsing into the air like a fly fisherman throwing back and forth his rods fighting the mighty Half kilo haddock .the punches raining down.
His lips swollen and blistered ,the whelps and bruises all ready emanating from their fragile skin ,from the grunts and growls of there broken bones ,shorn of ripped torn clothes.
The woman stands there. I ask her is this usual ? Yes she replys same time ,same place always after a drink. I’m not sure why they are even fighting about .its almost ego driven, ritualistic much like stags in the fields trying to work out who’s in charge either that or who gets to take me home. I laugh worriedly I can tell she could lie for a living .
I ask if she’s got a friend to get her home safely ,yeah she’s called Stella as she kicks the rattling can whilst clasping the rest of the 1664 litter ,like her six pack she looks great. 16 going on 64 and is probably wise beyond her beautiful years.
do you have a snout she ask ? I thumb my nose ,no a cigarette silly ,will a roll up do ? I respond. She takes a pinch and curtsy’s for me in jest. I bow in kind And wish her well adieu , she mocks my faux French and blows me a kiss. And I walk off in the direction I’ve just come from away from the scene that could be playing out in multiple towns and city’s across the globe.
As the pace of my heart beats ,I pass the church. The stone graves cast a sad reflection of in time memorandums. If I could sample the silence of the dead that march from these graves I’d set it to a eternal looping drum beat.
loop,loop,loop,loop,loop and play it in my head
The rose on the grave the devil in the detail.
the old house he stumbled past is lit up for Christmas without the decorations the charm of the season has already worn thin and we are not even out month of hallow like a used toupee the people seem restless, always being moved and rearranged he lays on the grave looking for a moment of solitude and thinks of the remembrance…
This town has dragged him to this grave, a week away would help just until the smoke clears of the early fireworks being let off everywhere, it’s like the calendar we once respected has been chucked aside for the let’s live all our holidays in one day. The card writers the corporations the streams of endless advertisement the insanity . A doorbell rings near by, where’s that angel the little girl talked about in that movie, just stone statues weeping .
Just a black and white movie from a childhood long ago. I’m getting world worn the reflections of the puddle look stunning like a petrol kaleidoscope.
The writer in me tells the heckling crowd to sod off. If I wanted there input I’d ask. Apparently Mr Hyde or the alter ego is a jealous guy, with a face only his mother could love, cupboard love not enough even for the pavlov dog always coming back for more even though she didn’t like tea and didn’t take sugar.shame he murdered her in cold blood ,no cards for Christmas just that sense of longing he only found in the arms of a Dutch window dresser.
Apparently dinosaurs were first discovered in a small outcrop outside the city centre in a Dutch suburb , hummus for humour. Recollections of pizza’s and from age cheats and a chess board for a sitting on a train.”your move Sherlock”
the systems to blame , it’s not me its that rocky outcrop called nature verses nurture if only a new Identity could be issued ,he could escape the endless blame game. Apparently the porno he made had bad reviews. Having never seen the final cut, I wouldn’t know I never saw it. more like the pharmacy grade commercial apparently They do a roaring trade in .
the priest drudged back into make the call he makes every Friday .who ever coined the phrase ” father “needs to explain himself he’s just a priest. The only solace he could take from the bizarre conversation he had just had was that. Well we’re find our way in the end, and the man will be back for the same conversation hopefully a little less drunk and maybe coherent.
a set-ups a set-up , most people can see it for what it is. Don’t you know I’m the king of the wood.
A woman pulls up in her soft top black BMW ,the sounds of the dance remix machine blaring out.
she helps her prostrate man into the car And waves the priest good bye Same time next week father she shouts. There’s no reply all he can do is what he always does. Pray.
its OK , we will get you home, as she’s races him away in her car.. We don’t live near the palace of the pearly queen no more , we live near the wood on the seaside where we fell love remember ? your homes there, she points to the maps of towns. He’s a sleep passed out and ruining the upholstery of her car. I doubt he will remember any of this apparently amnesia runs in the family.
I watch this scene from a distance and plug In my headphones maybe three minutes thirty of radio edit will erase what I’ve seen. As I walk on ,the loneliness of this road is like a warm embrace and monkeys might fly . it’s freezing , Who knew freedom could be so liberating so addictive, I vanish like the stains in the television commercials even freedom has a price.
a yellowing sports car races by if there was somebody to punch. Well I’d say your turn first. The wig on the man’s head flys off landing on the curb. Who knew.. I’m sure I’ve seen that car somewhere before, maybe in a different colour my memory fails me all the time, aren’t coincidences funny things almost like Deja vu . I’m walking on meow says the cat as I cross the road .
my nerves are shredded. I half expect a comic monster to jump out and say boo, when in Rome .Thankfully none appear although ,I hear the adult movie remake was a spectacular flop.
as the car pulls up to the drive, the lights on the house buzz into life the curtain opens and the ghost rolls her eyes ,the kettles switched on for tea and sympathy.The young woman helps the man out of the car and wanders him into the house in a small cul de sac in the distance a fair ground is still in full flow the hum of attractions, the dance music mixed with the sounds of the old carousel and wind organ .the smell of candy floss, burnt sugar and toffee apples.
She paused before delivering her line the same talk every time every Friday or Saturday.
the talk went something like this. ” If you do something whether it’s good or bad you can only expect an equal reaction. It’s called karma some would say enough with the retributions” stop fighting.
with that the kettle was boiled and the sympathy was served on the plate. The man hung his head like the newly acquired Spanish doll with a sombrero sitting in the corner of a room from a trip to the Spanish plains no one in the house had been on, outside the rain crashed down and man was placed in the arm chair. The clock ticked it was three minutes to midnight.
the young nameless girl walked into the room in her hands her musical jewellery box though she was naive for her years. She could see the man wasn’t well, the fact he was shaking was a visible sign of the internal injuries .she opened her music box which was empty and set the tune in motion. ” it will sing you to sleep, maybe you will dream of the life you will never knew”.
as I opened my coat fumbling for a set keys to my now silent single dwelling studio and fold out bed. kitchenette in the bathtub. The letter I forgot to leave on the windscreen for the next man to warn him to run still in my hand I sit down at the fold out TV dinner table,The elephant in the room dealt with the parrot drowned in its cage. I guess this is what silence is….life well that’s all the rage. I open up the safe behind the print of dogs playing cards and place the letter inside, no suitcase this time for those loose lips and let’s see what’s lost in the future translation.
A moment, a pause, a reflection …. Of us all
and those past lives we try to erase that are sometimes not even our own.