I am much vexed by this town of miscreants! This town which shuffles on its way, a village of hedgehogs!
Why nobody has taken up the sword and cut loose I will never know. The people here are buried before their deaths and little do they realise.
I wonder at the fish, who with each tide return to lap at the dirty hem.
Had I the freedom of the ocean I would 'ave skidooed from 'ere. But time will come, I shall sail from the port on words, and wipe the putrid cemetery mud from my boots forever.
It takes a narrow minded simpleton to live in this crooked place of gossip and church. Cowboys and lunatics the lot of 'em! They would'nt know culture if it paid their wages.
What good are people if their only pleasure is a debauched weekend?
I cannot even speak in this wretchedness. It used to be a beautiful village full of promise, until I woke up and realised with a crushed hope that I was looking at it through bottle smashed eyes.
Now I am free of that curse I can see what surrounds me. Out of the screaming frying pan, into a hopless fire.
What are the ambitions of zombies? What of their dreams? I can imagine the answers falling miserably into something like this. 'Well, those sicks numbas comin' up on Saterday wud be nice!'
And what they do with their million pound handshake? 'Erm...new howse 'an car, holadays for the missus.'
It would be like giving a homocidal maniac a bowie knife then wondering what he'd do with it.
On occasion I find it difficult to express my feelings for this town.
The air is clean and some nooks and crannies are pleasing to the eye, but everything else is funeral black. Certainly no vaudeville springs from the heart.
A few poems have been penned, but my childhood in the town was my inspiration there. It exists no more.
Now it has become solemn; a drab clawfish of a place, filled with alleyways and secret routes which I must escape or go mad.
The scenery is not blame here anyway.
Ambtion! Ambition! Ambition! (Of course it is spelt AMBISHUN here). Work, shopping and pubs. A chained life.
I must confess my bones cry for more than that. I feel that having been dead for quarter of a century, now is the time to LIVE, if live I must. Now it is time to reach out and take!
The whisper of this blasted community has slipped forever from my lips. I will not feed the hell fires. Burn the buildings and hang the idle from their penniless tongues! It deserves no recognition from me. I would not carry its colours on my pennon in battle.
Twice the cursed pit has tried to bring me to my knees. But I shall struggle onward and carve my name away from the haunting wind. Ambition is the key here.
Ambishun!
Ambishun!
Ambishun!
22 July 1997 During a foul mood.
Wednesday 30 September 2009
Monday 28 September 2009
Soul Gaol/The Other Side
ALONE is the most dreaded word in the dictionary to me. It is empty, cold, devoid of flower or song. Cruel without joy.
Sharp to touch, it cuts through flabby muscle to the bone, and buries misery beneath the skin. When one has been visited by the beast of lonliness (for it is truly a beast of torment), they will be familiar with its lingering odour and bitter taste which chews to the spirits core.
Of course everyone wants to be ALONE sometimes, whether it be from family or friends, the word becomes COMFORT in this instance. A chance to gather thoughts and think sweet nothings, (or imagine morbid circuses depending on your persuasion). Alone time with voices in the background is refreshing but when a person is utterly ALONE, with nobody but whispers and reflection, it becomes terrible. Months grow tiresome, years go blind and hopless.
When you shout foul lullabies into darkness and hear replies echoing in their own tongue, it fills the heart with desperate tragedy. To be ALONE is the curse of the sad, being sad the curse of the lonely.
When one has nowhere to go but the grave, and no hand to shake save their own, the world becomes like a skull without skin or life. It is a tedious affair having a heart that beats for nothing, Being ALONE in the upstairs downstairs monotony of the home, no matter how splendid the house or pleasant its surroundings, the house becomes prison. The most wretched prison of all.
Wretched because everything is disguised with comforts and one may come and go as they wish, it holds nothing of the body. One may even tear it down, brick by terrible brick but would accomplish nothing. An empty home is a place of a thousand sufferings, holding the music of the soul in chains. Every single note is lashed to despair.
With each new dawn the heart prepares itself for fresh woe. If it skips, it skips by accident or murmur.
Were cherubims to play the music of a lonely spirit on their willow harps, the notes would fall dead and stain the Heavens with a sombre black.
The rules of the soul gaol are simple and few.
One is permitted entertainment but not appreciation. Good food and splendid gin but no taste. Breath is allowed but Life is not. One may go wherever one chooses but must (and will, for it is this reason the prison is disguised as home) always return.
A person who is truly ALONE may have everything, and still have nothing at all. It is the simpelest of all curses, to be born with a wooden spirit which burns solitude throughout Life.
Perhaps the most painful sting to a lonely soul is the fact that it will never learn the of crime which has forced it to exist in a sterile box, away from the laughter of the crowd. Was it a fallen angel? Had it wronged a God in a previous Life?
Entire days are spent scrabbling in the mind, searching for an answer, a piece of comfort. But the solution is hidden behind happiness on a shelf just out of reach.
ALONE. If it were a drug it would be feared more than heroin or cocaine, its effects devastating. It is little wonder when one reads of maniacs running amok amongst innocents, shrieking like banshees. Society contributes to their plight by ousting them from its fickle mob
It is of no use telling a misfit to reach out and find friendship because their mind is already numbed. They can play the jokers card and cultivate counterfeit relationships but when those are torn asunder the wounds bleed forever.
The sentence is Life, and what a foul life it is until death arrives like a golden shrouded saviour. Nobody can make a soul. It needs the hand of God.
Sharp to touch, it cuts through flabby muscle to the bone, and buries misery beneath the skin. When one has been visited by the beast of lonliness (for it is truly a beast of torment), they will be familiar with its lingering odour and bitter taste which chews to the spirits core.
Of course everyone wants to be ALONE sometimes, whether it be from family or friends, the word becomes COMFORT in this instance. A chance to gather thoughts and think sweet nothings, (or imagine morbid circuses depending on your persuasion). Alone time with voices in the background is refreshing but when a person is utterly ALONE, with nobody but whispers and reflection, it becomes terrible. Months grow tiresome, years go blind and hopless.
When you shout foul lullabies into darkness and hear replies echoing in their own tongue, it fills the heart with desperate tragedy. To be ALONE is the curse of the sad, being sad the curse of the lonely.
When one has nowhere to go but the grave, and no hand to shake save their own, the world becomes like a skull without skin or life. It is a tedious affair having a heart that beats for nothing, Being ALONE in the upstairs downstairs monotony of the home, no matter how splendid the house or pleasant its surroundings, the house becomes prison. The most wretched prison of all.
Wretched because everything is disguised with comforts and one may come and go as they wish, it holds nothing of the body. One may even tear it down, brick by terrible brick but would accomplish nothing. An empty home is a place of a thousand sufferings, holding the music of the soul in chains. Every single note is lashed to despair.
With each new dawn the heart prepares itself for fresh woe. If it skips, it skips by accident or murmur.
Were cherubims to play the music of a lonely spirit on their willow harps, the notes would fall dead and stain the Heavens with a sombre black.
The rules of the soul gaol are simple and few.
One is permitted entertainment but not appreciation. Good food and splendid gin but no taste. Breath is allowed but Life is not. One may go wherever one chooses but must (and will, for it is this reason the prison is disguised as home) always return.
A person who is truly ALONE may have everything, and still have nothing at all. It is the simpelest of all curses, to be born with a wooden spirit which burns solitude throughout Life.
Perhaps the most painful sting to a lonely soul is the fact that it will never learn the of crime which has forced it to exist in a sterile box, away from the laughter of the crowd. Was it a fallen angel? Had it wronged a God in a previous Life?
Entire days are spent scrabbling in the mind, searching for an answer, a piece of comfort. But the solution is hidden behind happiness on a shelf just out of reach.
ALONE. If it were a drug it would be feared more than heroin or cocaine, its effects devastating. It is little wonder when one reads of maniacs running amok amongst innocents, shrieking like banshees. Society contributes to their plight by ousting them from its fickle mob
It is of no use telling a misfit to reach out and find friendship because their mind is already numbed. They can play the jokers card and cultivate counterfeit relationships but when those are torn asunder the wounds bleed forever.
The sentence is Life, and what a foul life it is until death arrives like a golden shrouded saviour. Nobody can make a soul. It needs the hand of God.
Friday 25 September 2009
Hanging Around For Charlotte
Had I looked more closely into the black coffee I made this morning, perhaps I might have known what kind of day it would be. I only have my easily excited mind to blame.
Last night I had the pleasure of entertaining a young lady who I had met through an acquaintance of a pretty devil.
I had never seen her before yet somehow I must have, and I realised quick sharp what had happened. I'd met lust, the sweet something we all desire and think about in fantasies, in bus stations, in crowded cities and cemeteries. She was the fun-loving girl whose name I'd scratched many times on school desks, the gal in the chip shop queues that I occasionaly stared at slyly through the corner of my undressing eye. The puppy girl in my room had been with me always, but last night in my room she had been there for real.
Inbetween swigs of coffee I dragged deeply on a cigarette, switching back in my mind to the night before, remembering she had told me she would call in today. I hoped to God I'd made a good impression and found myself wishing I had been more daring, cursing silently for holding back on telling her exactly how I felt.
I stopped waiting every hour to look at the clock. Birds carried on swerving between the clouds, ignoring my pleas to join them.
I decided to fetch another packet of cigarettes from the shop around the corner. I walked for miles, tens of them it seemed, and counted eight truanting children before I'd reached the end of my street and noticed that Mrs Jenkins in number forty two had stopped ordering her milk and eggs.
Once inside the shop I waited patiently for the till lady to serve the thirty or so people in front of me, closing my eyes to try to imagine I was someplace else, away from the mob of expectant mothers, retired soldiers, alcoholics and skint hopers writing their Christmas lists on lottery tickets.
By the time I was close enough to read the morning headlines on still damp newspapers I'd been to paradise ans back.
A different route home toolk me past shop fronts, pubs and young career criminals who knew the name of every type of pill better than any chemist. The next generation. I had been one of those, and as I stepped over a sleeping cider babe I almost wretched at the danger of it all.
The sun came out when I got to my door like it had been hiding from me. It lit up the kitchen so brightly as I made another coffee (white this time) thay I thought I saw something curled up down the sink plug hole. But too occupied in listening out for a knock on my door, I covered it with the rubber plug and let it sleep.
I made for the bedroom, sitting in front of the clock like a condemned man. I chewed a cigarette, flicking through radio channels and pages of books by obscure authors.
'This is what old age must be like.' I said aloud, screwing the sixth fag into a ashtray. 'I want to be in the ground by fifty, with Abise With Me and all the mourning trimmings.' I told the blue sky as if telling God my intention. I ran my fingers over prized posessions; a planet shattering music system, collection of vintage horror films and a box of gadgets that only worked by remote control.
'Shit, I don't want to be too old to appreciate these!'
Time inched onward, the day seemed to be on its hands and knees crawling over thin ice. Again I glaned at the clock, infuriated by its laziness. Time the stubborn, merciless ruler.
A packet of felt tip pens on the desk caught my eye. I took out the purple and rattled it between my teeth. I coloured a fingernail, then scrawled the word AMBITION on the front of the local newspaper. I coloured another fingernail and replaced the pen. Taking out a black marker I dotted LOVE on my right knuckles and HATE on the left, pretending to be a bovva boy with nowhere to go because he had frightened all of the cafe boys away.
People like that, along with thieves and conmen, create their own hell on earth where it hurts the most. There is no disclipine, none at all in hard luck and bullies.
I went into the bathroom, stepping up to a window to open as wide as it would go. Looking out to see if she was approaching, I saw four crows looking like rough coal fighting over a discarded ham roll, salad spilling out like the veins and watery guts of a road kill. A crippled cola can glistened in the sun. I closed the window.
As I crossed my landing a book gave up jostling for its place on the bookshelf, falling at my feet. Taking it into the bedroom I held its cover up for inspection: 'How To Choose Your Pet'. I flicked through its pages, remembering all of the animals I had kept as a young boy: budgies, hamsters, mice, goldfish, newts, frogs, terrapins and a cat. All had found their way to my door through keen love and interest. I love cats, I have always preferred cats over dogs. A dog is too obedient and clingy, relying on their master for everything like big eared babies. But a cat! Cats do as they please, no rules, utter rebels. I understand a cats sense of humour.
Staring down at the pictures I realised I missed the company of animals. The special bond, which wavers almost to conspiracy, between man and beast.
I looked for an animal among the pages. Something that wouldn't bite, sting, scratch, howl, swim or fly. I went back to the shelf and squeezed the book back into its place, and turned to the clock again. Frustration clenched its massive hand into a fist and punched me in the face, knocking me onto my bed. I lay back, shaken and dazed then twisted my head to watch the world spin without me.
Outside a million and one things were happening; good was battling bad, junkies were getting their first score and tourists were flitting through the sky in the hope of seeing either the Queen in Britain, the pope in Italy, the Dalai Lama in the Himilayas or Oprah Winfrey in the United States. While somewhere in a shaded corner of the universe a few of Lifes great tricksters, Love, Faith, Hope and Hate, were in hysterics together, shooting pool in a smokey tavern leaving troubled souls decide their hell.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door! She had finally arrived dragging Love from the smoking Inn. Pictures of us together flooded my erratic imagination, and foolishly I chased them to the front door.
A postman stood with half a smile on his face. Where was she? I looked over his shoulder, up and down the street taking no notice of the parcel he had shoved into my trembling hands. As he turned to leave I peeked into the opening of his bag to see if she was hiding among the letters.
The door shut like a jail gate.
A parcel? For me? Could it be a pair of wings sent by the God of Mercy, or an illicit kiss stolen from a sleeping gypsy queen?
I fought with sellotape for the secret in the box, tearing, ripping, filling the air with vulgar obsceneties, then dropped my eyes to the object on my lap; 'War Time Memories', a music cassette sent with compliments from a beer company I'd never heard of.
Did people during the war really have time to record songs? Wouldn't the silence inbetween gunfire be too deafening for anything, save a chance to listen to last words from a fallen comrade? I have seen battlefield photographs and the blood only seems to amplify the quiet.
Imagine the bullet holes. Having to count them all. Or bringing comfort every sick man, woman and paper thin spirit. The horror of conflict.
The nightmare act of stealing another life and wrapping it in death was too much for me, its ghost too big and hideous. My wait for Lust was painful but could never be measured against Death from mortar fire.
I lobbed the cassette into history, making for the coffee jar and switiching on the radio in my dining room. It rarely had anything to say but it was better than listening to a tone deaf kettle.
Out of the window I saw sparrows and starlings bickering on branches, a den of thieves if ever there was. It took me on another mind trip, back to a previous life, a place where if you had a benzo prescription you were treated like a lottery winner, and tramps lauded as great storytellers. Working men frowned on the idea but they were afraid of freedom. I could see the ball and chain dogging them daily; the wife, kids, mortgage, yellowing nine to five eyes and permanant limp.
I wanted none of it, throughout my growing pains I wore my hair long, singing dirty hymns in the park with all the other errant songbirds. I dressed down but kept my head held high, forever planning my grand escape out of the septic jungle.
While the mob talked babies and company cars in the pub on fridays, I was busy creating new worlds. They scoffed at me, believing my worn out heels and sore blisters came from either begging or stealing, never to understand they came from higher agonies. Those blisters, together with my haggard appearance were born out of a faith that the dreams Id had as a cub would not wither on a starving bone, and I'd fought hand in scabbed hand with hunger to keep them all alive.
Kettle steam suddenly misted over my reflections, I pulled away from the window, prepared a caffiene shot and went into the television room. It was always filled with the aroma of fresh fruit from the wooden bowl, whenever I opened the door I got a short dizzy high from it, similar to a pill buzz and for a minute I stood with a silly grin on my face before sinking into the blood red sofa.
Images on the tv tossed and turned at my command, never catching my attention fully. Cookery programmes, soap operas, quiz shows, 24 hour news, black & white films, all tried in vain to lure me into their wretched tedium by dressing it up in short skirts, scandal and occasional exclusive.
Sipping at the mug I expected a knock at the door to arrive any moment like a creak in the floorboards at night. A child driven mad by time.
An American chat show appeared from the debris of advertisements in a blaze of jazz trumpets. Iys audience was made up of struggling housewives mingled with secyions of grunge kids and pensioners. All whooped and cheered as the host emerged from the stage curtain, forked tail in tow.
I noticed two young women sitting behind him on tall stools as cameras pickout waving and back to front baseball caps. One brunette, the other blonde sporting a crayoned beauty spot like Marilyn. Both looked dumb enough to make a career in cartoons.
I watched in disbelief, allowing my coffee to go cold, as the two girls fought and argued over the same man, while the host stood among his audience, arms folded, chin between finger and thumb. The man was unveiled next, a cruel, hard looking type in cheap shoes and crooked tie. Every story needs a villian.
He took his place on a perch, between his women, barely saying a word throughout the money spectacle, as they continued spitting insults at each other over his shoulders and sat in silence like a soft drink in a room full of alcoholics. Unwanted, yet wanted very much; the misfit on posters of old western movies.
The circus rolled on letting all beasts of the heart loose to wander free, howling all; envy, spite, hatred, every kind of bitch was unleashed. At one point I actually believed I could physically see the sweet nothings and intimate strokes these people onstage must have shared, scurrying around the floor, desperate for a hiding place.
The moon, great keeper of secrets had joined forces with the sun it seemed, and together they shone until all three, two sheep and a hungry dog, were utterly naked.
Stripped to their souls like bad hangovers, they were the sorriest looking rascals this side of lunacy. Dignity obviously alien to them and before the grinning host could crack his whip to begin another shootout I blew his tongue off its hinge with the television wand.
I peeked through the curtains at the slow world to check if my girl was sitting on my backdoor steps; nothing. Then turned around and looked at myself in the mirror above the fireplace. Who is this guy? I thought.
The reflection flickered like flame and I found myself trying to mentally chew off any bit of me that was unflattering, tasting the butter of vanity that had turned me fat. A moody disco Narcissus.
I stared at the thinning hair with specks of white; scars which I'd gotten from days in the underworld, eyes ringed like handcuffs, body like a brewery, smokers cough, twisted tongue, beard that looked like a massacre, dirty fingernails, the entire shebang in framed glass.
'You look like a fry up.' I told the ruffian in front of me, digging my long nails into hairy palms.
Boredom was laying the mustard deep toay. Any minute rigor mortis would set in, stinging like hell. I felt as if I were wearing clowns face paint and sifted through my tension for the next caper, another way to score a buzz.
I fished my wallet out from a porcelain teapot that had never once been used for tea, only gin. There was no money inside, like the tea there never had been. Whenever I had cash I kept it folded in a breast pocket of my shirt, pinning the flash gangster style down.
I knelt down and placed the contents in a line on the sofa. Two library cards, yellowing receipts, a London tube ticket, a fake coin I recieved from A.A. for a months terrible sobriety and a postcard from somewhere to remind me of anywhere.
Each had a whiff of gin about them but the fake coin with its superior looking shine smelt strongest. I gathered them all up and tipped them back into the pot. Ashtray relics.
Last night I had the pleasure of entertaining a young lady who I had met through an acquaintance of a pretty devil.
I had never seen her before yet somehow I must have, and I realised quick sharp what had happened. I'd met lust, the sweet something we all desire and think about in fantasies, in bus stations, in crowded cities and cemeteries. She was the fun-loving girl whose name I'd scratched many times on school desks, the gal in the chip shop queues that I occasionaly stared at slyly through the corner of my undressing eye. The puppy girl in my room had been with me always, but last night in my room she had been there for real.
Inbetween swigs of coffee I dragged deeply on a cigarette, switching back in my mind to the night before, remembering she had told me she would call in today. I hoped to God I'd made a good impression and found myself wishing I had been more daring, cursing silently for holding back on telling her exactly how I felt.
I stopped waiting every hour to look at the clock. Birds carried on swerving between the clouds, ignoring my pleas to join them.
I decided to fetch another packet of cigarettes from the shop around the corner. I walked for miles, tens of them it seemed, and counted eight truanting children before I'd reached the end of my street and noticed that Mrs Jenkins in number forty two had stopped ordering her milk and eggs.
Once inside the shop I waited patiently for the till lady to serve the thirty or so people in front of me, closing my eyes to try to imagine I was someplace else, away from the mob of expectant mothers, retired soldiers, alcoholics and skint hopers writing their Christmas lists on lottery tickets.
By the time I was close enough to read the morning headlines on still damp newspapers I'd been to paradise ans back.
A different route home toolk me past shop fronts, pubs and young career criminals who knew the name of every type of pill better than any chemist. The next generation. I had been one of those, and as I stepped over a sleeping cider babe I almost wretched at the danger of it all.
The sun came out when I got to my door like it had been hiding from me. It lit up the kitchen so brightly as I made another coffee (white this time) thay I thought I saw something curled up down the sink plug hole. But too occupied in listening out for a knock on my door, I covered it with the rubber plug and let it sleep.
I made for the bedroom, sitting in front of the clock like a condemned man. I chewed a cigarette, flicking through radio channels and pages of books by obscure authors.
'This is what old age must be like.' I said aloud, screwing the sixth fag into a ashtray. 'I want to be in the ground by fifty, with Abise With Me and all the mourning trimmings.' I told the blue sky as if telling God my intention. I ran my fingers over prized posessions; a planet shattering music system, collection of vintage horror films and a box of gadgets that only worked by remote control.
'Shit, I don't want to be too old to appreciate these!'
Time inched onward, the day seemed to be on its hands and knees crawling over thin ice. Again I glaned at the clock, infuriated by its laziness. Time the stubborn, merciless ruler.
A packet of felt tip pens on the desk caught my eye. I took out the purple and rattled it between my teeth. I coloured a fingernail, then scrawled the word AMBITION on the front of the local newspaper. I coloured another fingernail and replaced the pen. Taking out a black marker I dotted LOVE on my right knuckles and HATE on the left, pretending to be a bovva boy with nowhere to go because he had frightened all of the cafe boys away.
People like that, along with thieves and conmen, create their own hell on earth where it hurts the most. There is no disclipine, none at all in hard luck and bullies.
I went into the bathroom, stepping up to a window to open as wide as it would go. Looking out to see if she was approaching, I saw four crows looking like rough coal fighting over a discarded ham roll, salad spilling out like the veins and watery guts of a road kill. A crippled cola can glistened in the sun. I closed the window.
As I crossed my landing a book gave up jostling for its place on the bookshelf, falling at my feet. Taking it into the bedroom I held its cover up for inspection: 'How To Choose Your Pet'. I flicked through its pages, remembering all of the animals I had kept as a young boy: budgies, hamsters, mice, goldfish, newts, frogs, terrapins and a cat. All had found their way to my door through keen love and interest. I love cats, I have always preferred cats over dogs. A dog is too obedient and clingy, relying on their master for everything like big eared babies. But a cat! Cats do as they please, no rules, utter rebels. I understand a cats sense of humour.
Staring down at the pictures I realised I missed the company of animals. The special bond, which wavers almost to conspiracy, between man and beast.
I looked for an animal among the pages. Something that wouldn't bite, sting, scratch, howl, swim or fly. I went back to the shelf and squeezed the book back into its place, and turned to the clock again. Frustration clenched its massive hand into a fist and punched me in the face, knocking me onto my bed. I lay back, shaken and dazed then twisted my head to watch the world spin without me.
Outside a million and one things were happening; good was battling bad, junkies were getting their first score and tourists were flitting through the sky in the hope of seeing either the Queen in Britain, the pope in Italy, the Dalai Lama in the Himilayas or Oprah Winfrey in the United States. While somewhere in a shaded corner of the universe a few of Lifes great tricksters, Love, Faith, Hope and Hate, were in hysterics together, shooting pool in a smokey tavern leaving troubled souls decide their hell.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door! She had finally arrived dragging Love from the smoking Inn. Pictures of us together flooded my erratic imagination, and foolishly I chased them to the front door.
A postman stood with half a smile on his face. Where was she? I looked over his shoulder, up and down the street taking no notice of the parcel he had shoved into my trembling hands. As he turned to leave I peeked into the opening of his bag to see if she was hiding among the letters.
The door shut like a jail gate.
A parcel? For me? Could it be a pair of wings sent by the God of Mercy, or an illicit kiss stolen from a sleeping gypsy queen?
I fought with sellotape for the secret in the box, tearing, ripping, filling the air with vulgar obsceneties, then dropped my eyes to the object on my lap; 'War Time Memories', a music cassette sent with compliments from a beer company I'd never heard of.
Did people during the war really have time to record songs? Wouldn't the silence inbetween gunfire be too deafening for anything, save a chance to listen to last words from a fallen comrade? I have seen battlefield photographs and the blood only seems to amplify the quiet.
Imagine the bullet holes. Having to count them all. Or bringing comfort every sick man, woman and paper thin spirit. The horror of conflict.
The nightmare act of stealing another life and wrapping it in death was too much for me, its ghost too big and hideous. My wait for Lust was painful but could never be measured against Death from mortar fire.
I lobbed the cassette into history, making for the coffee jar and switiching on the radio in my dining room. It rarely had anything to say but it was better than listening to a tone deaf kettle.
Out of the window I saw sparrows and starlings bickering on branches, a den of thieves if ever there was. It took me on another mind trip, back to a previous life, a place where if you had a benzo prescription you were treated like a lottery winner, and tramps lauded as great storytellers. Working men frowned on the idea but they were afraid of freedom. I could see the ball and chain dogging them daily; the wife, kids, mortgage, yellowing nine to five eyes and permanant limp.
I wanted none of it, throughout my growing pains I wore my hair long, singing dirty hymns in the park with all the other errant songbirds. I dressed down but kept my head held high, forever planning my grand escape out of the septic jungle.
While the mob talked babies and company cars in the pub on fridays, I was busy creating new worlds. They scoffed at me, believing my worn out heels and sore blisters came from either begging or stealing, never to understand they came from higher agonies. Those blisters, together with my haggard appearance were born out of a faith that the dreams Id had as a cub would not wither on a starving bone, and I'd fought hand in scabbed hand with hunger to keep them all alive.
Kettle steam suddenly misted over my reflections, I pulled away from the window, prepared a caffiene shot and went into the television room. It was always filled with the aroma of fresh fruit from the wooden bowl, whenever I opened the door I got a short dizzy high from it, similar to a pill buzz and for a minute I stood with a silly grin on my face before sinking into the blood red sofa.
Images on the tv tossed and turned at my command, never catching my attention fully. Cookery programmes, soap operas, quiz shows, 24 hour news, black & white films, all tried in vain to lure me into their wretched tedium by dressing it up in short skirts, scandal and occasional exclusive.
Sipping at the mug I expected a knock at the door to arrive any moment like a creak in the floorboards at night. A child driven mad by time.
An American chat show appeared from the debris of advertisements in a blaze of jazz trumpets. Iys audience was made up of struggling housewives mingled with secyions of grunge kids and pensioners. All whooped and cheered as the host emerged from the stage curtain, forked tail in tow.
I noticed two young women sitting behind him on tall stools as cameras pickout waving and back to front baseball caps. One brunette, the other blonde sporting a crayoned beauty spot like Marilyn. Both looked dumb enough to make a career in cartoons.
I watched in disbelief, allowing my coffee to go cold, as the two girls fought and argued over the same man, while the host stood among his audience, arms folded, chin between finger and thumb. The man was unveiled next, a cruel, hard looking type in cheap shoes and crooked tie. Every story needs a villian.
He took his place on a perch, between his women, barely saying a word throughout the money spectacle, as they continued spitting insults at each other over his shoulders and sat in silence like a soft drink in a room full of alcoholics. Unwanted, yet wanted very much; the misfit on posters of old western movies.
The circus rolled on letting all beasts of the heart loose to wander free, howling all; envy, spite, hatred, every kind of bitch was unleashed. At one point I actually believed I could physically see the sweet nothings and intimate strokes these people onstage must have shared, scurrying around the floor, desperate for a hiding place.
The moon, great keeper of secrets had joined forces with the sun it seemed, and together they shone until all three, two sheep and a hungry dog, were utterly naked.
Stripped to their souls like bad hangovers, they were the sorriest looking rascals this side of lunacy. Dignity obviously alien to them and before the grinning host could crack his whip to begin another shootout I blew his tongue off its hinge with the television wand.
I peeked through the curtains at the slow world to check if my girl was sitting on my backdoor steps; nothing. Then turned around and looked at myself in the mirror above the fireplace. Who is this guy? I thought.
The reflection flickered like flame and I found myself trying to mentally chew off any bit of me that was unflattering, tasting the butter of vanity that had turned me fat. A moody disco Narcissus.
I stared at the thinning hair with specks of white; scars which I'd gotten from days in the underworld, eyes ringed like handcuffs, body like a brewery, smokers cough, twisted tongue, beard that looked like a massacre, dirty fingernails, the entire shebang in framed glass.
'You look like a fry up.' I told the ruffian in front of me, digging my long nails into hairy palms.
Boredom was laying the mustard deep toay. Any minute rigor mortis would set in, stinging like hell. I felt as if I were wearing clowns face paint and sifted through my tension for the next caper, another way to score a buzz.
I fished my wallet out from a porcelain teapot that had never once been used for tea, only gin. There was no money inside, like the tea there never had been. Whenever I had cash I kept it folded in a breast pocket of my shirt, pinning the flash gangster style down.
I knelt down and placed the contents in a line on the sofa. Two library cards, yellowing receipts, a London tube ticket, a fake coin I recieved from A.A. for a months terrible sobriety and a postcard from somewhere to remind me of anywhere.
Each had a whiff of gin about them but the fake coin with its superior looking shine smelt strongest. I gathered them all up and tipped them back into the pot. Ashtray relics.
Hanging Around For Charlotte (prt 2)
I paced about the room feeling animal-like, stopping at certain ornaments my mother had left when she closed the door on her life with father. Cruel bitch but I loved her dearly. In fact I had inherited a lot from her from both sides of the coin. On one side she was genorous, loving, caring, never willing to let anyone down. Whilst on the darker side she was hot tempered, volatile and quick to outbursts with a razor tongue. She could be vain and attention seeking, and needing everything yesterday.
I was carbon copy of my mother, and like her could provoke an argument between two innocent by standers then take both their sides.
We had the same mind wiring, both prone to fits of jealousy and rage, yet fortunately instilled by a noble restraint. This I believe was our belief in spirituality, and a tendency to run to God when in need of respite. God not church. I only ever saw the inside of church when some poor soul had given up his earthly bones.
Finally I sat back down, reviving the idiot box again. Something of interest had to be on. I sailed through the channels as Captain Ahab, desperately hunting for a programme that would scream out of the screen like a deranged maniac and hold me transfixed as it slaughtered a few dismal hours.
Lighting a cigarette I began tapping at the tv clicker as if I were a paranoid author with a bee in his bonnet which would sting him on the ass if he didn't get it out.
One channel was showing adverts for flatter stomachs, another yawned the same old news, the next was busy trying to sell Jesus to the masses, whilst a fourth was holding a debate on the demon nicotine and sending smokers to hell without sermon.
I took a heavy drag on my own cancer stick and blew out my opinion in a smoke shaped exclamation mark. Was I not free to choose the colour of my death? Or the shape of my coffin? We needed more freedom fighters, there was too many full stops in the world and not nearly enough exclamation marks. But I wasn't going to allow my randy self to get into turmoil over it. I felt passionately about the things I feel strongly about, the problem was that the things I feel strongly about didn't have much passion.
I stuffed a video cassette into the sleek looking machine under the television. Irritatingly we are able to reduce the bulk of inanimate boxes of wire and chips, whilst we ourselves are over burdened with conscience and guilt. Ballooning like sunday magazine tripe.
As the films title, along with the names of actors, producers, make up artists, dolly grips and of course director rolled up screen, I placed the ashtray on the floor and sat next to it, stretching out my legs until they almost reched the fireplace and rested a diary on my lap.
While drama unfolded amidst explosions and blood stained 'f**k yous', i recorded the days non-events neatly into my favourite book, often straying into fantasy, willing myself to stay.
In frustration, in waiting for uncertainty I painted myself into another world, where bats flew with stockinged angels bringing them wine and diamonds, making the gunfire onscreen a distant blur. In fact the best thing I saw of the movie had been a neat copyright logo at the end.
i killed both television and its slick partner together. It was time to try a different kind of entertainment, one which would caress the hours, not beat them cruelly.
I considered masturbating but the incessant noise from traffic outside irritated. I yelled in an attempt to forget about the world beyond my door, then hollered some more. This time at my penis, wishing it would stir an inner most desire. It was useless, the constant revving of motorbikes and bleating of car horns made the sweet seductress and her lusty songs inaudible. I nudged her away from thought, fading her out like I was standing on a river bank watching somebody slowly drown.
I felt my teeth clench and noticed that my hands had curled at my side, forming hammer-like balls. The wait, time with its unforgiving STOP & GO signs was becoming more intolerable with each second. Idle memories I thought long buried came rushing back, driving me almost crazy.
I went upstairs. Then down again, roaming the house as if searching for new rooms to rest in. I visited the kitchen again, and peeked inside my fridge. The smell of mature cheese almost over powered me as I rummaged through different foods, a zombie in a quest for flesh. Milk bottles clanged as I shut the door, sending shivers down my spine: was I really in prison?
I came to a halt in the hallway, and stood in limbo, gazing at the sleeping telephone. Was anyone out there? Any life on planet earth?
My bedroom called out to me and I heeded it, sitting on the bed. Suddenly voices erupted around the walls, and for a split second I thought I had sat on a nest of leprechauns, upsetting some weird ritual. Feeling something dig into my spine I sat up bolt right, shaking frayed nerves to pieces in the process. The remote control which operated the stereo lay embedded into my duvet. No disgruntled leprechauns, no aliens, nothing. But the nothing wailed in agony.
I picked up the plastic control pad, hit the OFF button then threw the damned thingonto a nearby armchair, at the same flinging myself back onto my bed.
But for severe insomnia, which was even more potent during daytime hours, I might have tried sleeping. Instead I placed my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling. A jail snapshot: all I needed was a shirt with painted arrows and a guard outside the door. A regular movie scene.
I whistled a few tunes, remembering sorry souls on deserted railway stations doing the same. More power to the patient and glory to the mad: I was waiting on this station forever.
A gree tobacco tin caught my eye on the window sill next to my bed, and when I picked it up I heard something rattle inside. Another mysterious phantom? I tugged at the stubborn lid and out fell eight familar blue tablets. Valium!
During the last few days of late nights and coffee mornings I had forgotten all about them, now here they were! Little soverigns of joy.
The day was about to start tripping on the other foot.
I replaced the pills and started to prepare what was my 'Benzo Ritual'. A simple routine requiring only three things to bring the valium to life: good music (opera is too loud, guitars are fine), fresh tea (extra sweet) and mnost important of all, time. Twenty minutes to be precise to allow the chalk from the tablet dissolve into serenity.
Taking benzos thrilled me always, and while I waited impatiently for the trusty kettle to boil I imagined swans alighting on my shoulder blades and cherubims skipping in my heart. I was dizzy as I stirred the sugar, like I was posing in a graveyard.
Wasting no time music seeped through velvet faced speakers.
As soft music began to drip from walls, I sat on the bed, a cup of tea in one hand and the outlaw pills in the other. Taking a gulf of tea first to wet my eager mouth, I bolted the eight valium down my sugary throat. It took only five minutes to go through the 'Ritual' but during that time I felt like an escaped madman, thrilled by freedom but a little afraid. Not of the chemical but of reality. Then when at last I felt the bennies slide down, I settled and sipped the rest of the tea, refined and composed. A lady at a tea party.
Another chapter turned in my head. It would last at most, half an hour and would lead me into a garden songbirds, ghosts and inhibition.
Knowing the pills were flowing through my excited system, trying to find my brain, I looked around the bedroom, then out the window at the outside world to see if I could ignite my oncoming dose, and quicken the silent fireworks that would have me burn in merriment. But as I hunted for methods to entice the tranquilisers, I heard a whisper in a corner of my mind, 'let it take you by suprise, only then follow the groovy creep.'
I stood up, ignoring it, trying to force my blood to absorb the bennies. Excited symphonies lurked just below the cream.
My wandering eyes found the aquarium that I had placed out of sunlights reach. This was the kiddie! The trick! I thought, as I picked out a fish to follow around the tank. I chose the most graceful and watched him swim and dive, occasionaly coming close to my face almost pressed againt the glass, miming a shout at me. Looking at all six fish collectively, they resembled sherriff's badges in the wild west, each one looking like they'd been shot as they sank to the coloured gravel.
Minutes later I felt a gentle surge rise within my body. The voice had been right, bliss had arrived when I had been least aware and giddy child it felt perfect! Falling to my knees I thanked the chemical magician for his charming suprise.
Torrents of peace swept over mind, bones and muscle; washing away worry and sweeping all troubles under their blue crests. I hear anxiety shriek as it ran powerless to its dungeon. I felt doubt disappear and confidence race to the surface. My fretful wait for a frigid lover through the keyhole, I waved it on its way then stood, arms out-stretched savouring delicious freedom.
My home was truly a kingdom now! I wandered again into every room experiencing different atmospheres. Miserable ornaments looked cheerful, I gathered stagnant dust from shelves, holding it in the palm of my hands as if I were cradling velvet death.
In rooms hidden from sunlight I saw legends on fire in the shadows and dark visions crawl the walls, so I moved on into rooms where the sun was strongest and sat cross legged in the middle of the floor like an exposed shaman.
Under the benzo's powerful spell I had keys to doors that were always closed to the timid. In this humble home on a busy, quiet road in the heart of Spring, were doors which lead to Sodom & Gomorrah and beyond. And I was taxi driver for the curious.
I went to to the window overlooking the main road and saw a woman pass, laden down with weekly shopping. While watching her struggle I felt a grin spread over my mouth which suddenly vanished as quick as it had come. Could this be a sign? Was this woman with her awkward steps a glimpse of myself in decades to come? She might even be a bizarre symbol of years of addiction?
I drew the heavy curtains, screwing up the thought like waste paper.
The room was dark now, I walked into another one and it too had an inky mist. A drowsy feeling fell upon my skin and I realised with great sadness that sleep was about to descend, stealing away my wicked perceptions, leaving me dumb to rest, as dumb and naked as a babe in arms.
I made my way slowly to the bathroom, feeling the impending dull as I walked with head bowed. The fancy footwork had gone, I heaved up my stairs and slithered into the bathroom.
The mirror was carboard now. I noticed my crown of morpheus was crooked, slipping to one side. My eyelids were closing, the tap water scalpel sharp, ice-like.
I watched it gush from the tap, a ghoul staring at freshly opened arteries in an accident, then cupped my hands, giving my face several slaps with the water, hoping like hell it would revive the anaesthetic kiss.
Gone. All was lost. There was nothing I could do but watch my serenity ebb away from my mind, and get sucked into the plug hole.
Pulling my face out of the bowl, sleeps whiskers brushed over me. In the background Puccini was bringing a mixture of emotions to life, I was oblivious to them all.
I stepped into the empty bath to relax. It reminded me of a coffin as I attempted to get comfortable. Within minutes I was asleep. My carcass dead as sand as my mind strayed into the mad realm.
I came to in a library, no different than a million other libraries. Everything looked straight and sober and in its place, a well behaved rehab clinic. Counting three other people I wondered if they too had arrived with the help of a pharmacist.
The librarian, a plump woman in her fifties was busy stamping every book she laid her porky fingers on, while the other two shuffled sideways along the shelves, both their heads tilted almost to their shoulders looking like crabs engaged in a strange dance.
I giggled and all of a sudden a mighty 'Ssh!' escaped from the librarians red flabby lips, and I felt the gazes of the dancing crustaceans burn into my back. What the hell is this place? I thought to myself, fearing also they might be able to eavesdrop on my mind.
I wandered to the children's section and began looking for a book I hadn't read as a child. I pulled a Enid Blyton from its nest and fumbled through the pages.
Suddenly I was made aware of another presence and turned to see two children, a boy and girl both around eight years old, sitting on a cute ladybird sofa in direct sunlight streaming in from a bay window. Not a single book in sight.
They were locked in an embrace, ignoring me completely. As I stared I felt a warm buzz in my gut rise like fever, while a feral jackdaw coughed roughly in a pine tree outside.
Dashing the sinister requeim, I replaced it with curiosity while the fumbling couple continued their forbidden kisses. The boy was familiar to me.
It stayed this way for a time, as if my dream had stalled and trapped me inside the very heart of romance. A potent brew, innocence and daring.
Finally I tore my eyes from the couple and noticed a sign above the library exit: God is Love, Love is Power. An odd sign for a book temple. These were places notorious for their love of peace and quiet, almost DEMANDING them yet this sign seemed to yell at me louder than a storm.
'Funny old thing,' I whispered, dropping my eyes onto the still open pages of a Blyton in my paw.
I was barely into the fourth paragraph when I heard a sound like a pin drop from the direction of the young lovers. I glanced over and was shocked to see them no longer snuggling into each other but sitting quite a distance apart. Both were looking down at the floor, hiding an obvious sorrow.
Something glinted at the boys feet. It was the pin I had heard moments earlier, but was not actually pin at all. As I focused on the shining article I saw it was a single tear, still wet but solid looking. The boy wept hard, a little imp of sadness.
I was carbon copy of my mother, and like her could provoke an argument between two innocent by standers then take both their sides.
We had the same mind wiring, both prone to fits of jealousy and rage, yet fortunately instilled by a noble restraint. This I believe was our belief in spirituality, and a tendency to run to God when in need of respite. God not church. I only ever saw the inside of church when some poor soul had given up his earthly bones.
Finally I sat back down, reviving the idiot box again. Something of interest had to be on. I sailed through the channels as Captain Ahab, desperately hunting for a programme that would scream out of the screen like a deranged maniac and hold me transfixed as it slaughtered a few dismal hours.
Lighting a cigarette I began tapping at the tv clicker as if I were a paranoid author with a bee in his bonnet which would sting him on the ass if he didn't get it out.
One channel was showing adverts for flatter stomachs, another yawned the same old news, the next was busy trying to sell Jesus to the masses, whilst a fourth was holding a debate on the demon nicotine and sending smokers to hell without sermon.
I took a heavy drag on my own cancer stick and blew out my opinion in a smoke shaped exclamation mark. Was I not free to choose the colour of my death? Or the shape of my coffin? We needed more freedom fighters, there was too many full stops in the world and not nearly enough exclamation marks. But I wasn't going to allow my randy self to get into turmoil over it. I felt passionately about the things I feel strongly about, the problem was that the things I feel strongly about didn't have much passion.
I stuffed a video cassette into the sleek looking machine under the television. Irritatingly we are able to reduce the bulk of inanimate boxes of wire and chips, whilst we ourselves are over burdened with conscience and guilt. Ballooning like sunday magazine tripe.
As the films title, along with the names of actors, producers, make up artists, dolly grips and of course director rolled up screen, I placed the ashtray on the floor and sat next to it, stretching out my legs until they almost reched the fireplace and rested a diary on my lap.
While drama unfolded amidst explosions and blood stained 'f**k yous', i recorded the days non-events neatly into my favourite book, often straying into fantasy, willing myself to stay.
In frustration, in waiting for uncertainty I painted myself into another world, where bats flew with stockinged angels bringing them wine and diamonds, making the gunfire onscreen a distant blur. In fact the best thing I saw of the movie had been a neat copyright logo at the end.
i killed both television and its slick partner together. It was time to try a different kind of entertainment, one which would caress the hours, not beat them cruelly.
I considered masturbating but the incessant noise from traffic outside irritated. I yelled in an attempt to forget about the world beyond my door, then hollered some more. This time at my penis, wishing it would stir an inner most desire. It was useless, the constant revving of motorbikes and bleating of car horns made the sweet seductress and her lusty songs inaudible. I nudged her away from thought, fading her out like I was standing on a river bank watching somebody slowly drown.
I felt my teeth clench and noticed that my hands had curled at my side, forming hammer-like balls. The wait, time with its unforgiving STOP & GO signs was becoming more intolerable with each second. Idle memories I thought long buried came rushing back, driving me almost crazy.
I went upstairs. Then down again, roaming the house as if searching for new rooms to rest in. I visited the kitchen again, and peeked inside my fridge. The smell of mature cheese almost over powered me as I rummaged through different foods, a zombie in a quest for flesh. Milk bottles clanged as I shut the door, sending shivers down my spine: was I really in prison?
I came to a halt in the hallway, and stood in limbo, gazing at the sleeping telephone. Was anyone out there? Any life on planet earth?
My bedroom called out to me and I heeded it, sitting on the bed. Suddenly voices erupted around the walls, and for a split second I thought I had sat on a nest of leprechauns, upsetting some weird ritual. Feeling something dig into my spine I sat up bolt right, shaking frayed nerves to pieces in the process. The remote control which operated the stereo lay embedded into my duvet. No disgruntled leprechauns, no aliens, nothing. But the nothing wailed in agony.
I picked up the plastic control pad, hit the OFF button then threw the damned thingonto a nearby armchair, at the same flinging myself back onto my bed.
But for severe insomnia, which was even more potent during daytime hours, I might have tried sleeping. Instead I placed my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling. A jail snapshot: all I needed was a shirt with painted arrows and a guard outside the door. A regular movie scene.
I whistled a few tunes, remembering sorry souls on deserted railway stations doing the same. More power to the patient and glory to the mad: I was waiting on this station forever.
A gree tobacco tin caught my eye on the window sill next to my bed, and when I picked it up I heard something rattle inside. Another mysterious phantom? I tugged at the stubborn lid and out fell eight familar blue tablets. Valium!
During the last few days of late nights and coffee mornings I had forgotten all about them, now here they were! Little soverigns of joy.
The day was about to start tripping on the other foot.
I replaced the pills and started to prepare what was my 'Benzo Ritual'. A simple routine requiring only three things to bring the valium to life: good music (opera is too loud, guitars are fine), fresh tea (extra sweet) and mnost important of all, time. Twenty minutes to be precise to allow the chalk from the tablet dissolve into serenity.
Taking benzos thrilled me always, and while I waited impatiently for the trusty kettle to boil I imagined swans alighting on my shoulder blades and cherubims skipping in my heart. I was dizzy as I stirred the sugar, like I was posing in a graveyard.
Wasting no time music seeped through velvet faced speakers.
As soft music began to drip from walls, I sat on the bed, a cup of tea in one hand and the outlaw pills in the other. Taking a gulf of tea first to wet my eager mouth, I bolted the eight valium down my sugary throat. It took only five minutes to go through the 'Ritual' but during that time I felt like an escaped madman, thrilled by freedom but a little afraid. Not of the chemical but of reality. Then when at last I felt the bennies slide down, I settled and sipped the rest of the tea, refined and composed. A lady at a tea party.
Another chapter turned in my head. It would last at most, half an hour and would lead me into a garden songbirds, ghosts and inhibition.
Knowing the pills were flowing through my excited system, trying to find my brain, I looked around the bedroom, then out the window at the outside world to see if I could ignite my oncoming dose, and quicken the silent fireworks that would have me burn in merriment. But as I hunted for methods to entice the tranquilisers, I heard a whisper in a corner of my mind, 'let it take you by suprise, only then follow the groovy creep.'
I stood up, ignoring it, trying to force my blood to absorb the bennies. Excited symphonies lurked just below the cream.
My wandering eyes found the aquarium that I had placed out of sunlights reach. This was the kiddie! The trick! I thought, as I picked out a fish to follow around the tank. I chose the most graceful and watched him swim and dive, occasionaly coming close to my face almost pressed againt the glass, miming a shout at me. Looking at all six fish collectively, they resembled sherriff's badges in the wild west, each one looking like they'd been shot as they sank to the coloured gravel.
Minutes later I felt a gentle surge rise within my body. The voice had been right, bliss had arrived when I had been least aware and giddy child it felt perfect! Falling to my knees I thanked the chemical magician for his charming suprise.
Torrents of peace swept over mind, bones and muscle; washing away worry and sweeping all troubles under their blue crests. I hear anxiety shriek as it ran powerless to its dungeon. I felt doubt disappear and confidence race to the surface. My fretful wait for a frigid lover through the keyhole, I waved it on its way then stood, arms out-stretched savouring delicious freedom.
My home was truly a kingdom now! I wandered again into every room experiencing different atmospheres. Miserable ornaments looked cheerful, I gathered stagnant dust from shelves, holding it in the palm of my hands as if I were cradling velvet death.
In rooms hidden from sunlight I saw legends on fire in the shadows and dark visions crawl the walls, so I moved on into rooms where the sun was strongest and sat cross legged in the middle of the floor like an exposed shaman.
Under the benzo's powerful spell I had keys to doors that were always closed to the timid. In this humble home on a busy, quiet road in the heart of Spring, were doors which lead to Sodom & Gomorrah and beyond. And I was taxi driver for the curious.
I went to to the window overlooking the main road and saw a woman pass, laden down with weekly shopping. While watching her struggle I felt a grin spread over my mouth which suddenly vanished as quick as it had come. Could this be a sign? Was this woman with her awkward steps a glimpse of myself in decades to come? She might even be a bizarre symbol of years of addiction?
I drew the heavy curtains, screwing up the thought like waste paper.
The room was dark now, I walked into another one and it too had an inky mist. A drowsy feeling fell upon my skin and I realised with great sadness that sleep was about to descend, stealing away my wicked perceptions, leaving me dumb to rest, as dumb and naked as a babe in arms.
I made my way slowly to the bathroom, feeling the impending dull as I walked with head bowed. The fancy footwork had gone, I heaved up my stairs and slithered into the bathroom.
The mirror was carboard now. I noticed my crown of morpheus was crooked, slipping to one side. My eyelids were closing, the tap water scalpel sharp, ice-like.
I watched it gush from the tap, a ghoul staring at freshly opened arteries in an accident, then cupped my hands, giving my face several slaps with the water, hoping like hell it would revive the anaesthetic kiss.
Gone. All was lost. There was nothing I could do but watch my serenity ebb away from my mind, and get sucked into the plug hole.
Pulling my face out of the bowl, sleeps whiskers brushed over me. In the background Puccini was bringing a mixture of emotions to life, I was oblivious to them all.
I stepped into the empty bath to relax. It reminded me of a coffin as I attempted to get comfortable. Within minutes I was asleep. My carcass dead as sand as my mind strayed into the mad realm.
I came to in a library, no different than a million other libraries. Everything looked straight and sober and in its place, a well behaved rehab clinic. Counting three other people I wondered if they too had arrived with the help of a pharmacist.
The librarian, a plump woman in her fifties was busy stamping every book she laid her porky fingers on, while the other two shuffled sideways along the shelves, both their heads tilted almost to their shoulders looking like crabs engaged in a strange dance.
I giggled and all of a sudden a mighty 'Ssh!' escaped from the librarians red flabby lips, and I felt the gazes of the dancing crustaceans burn into my back. What the hell is this place? I thought to myself, fearing also they might be able to eavesdrop on my mind.
I wandered to the children's section and began looking for a book I hadn't read as a child. I pulled a Enid Blyton from its nest and fumbled through the pages.
Suddenly I was made aware of another presence and turned to see two children, a boy and girl both around eight years old, sitting on a cute ladybird sofa in direct sunlight streaming in from a bay window. Not a single book in sight.
They were locked in an embrace, ignoring me completely. As I stared I felt a warm buzz in my gut rise like fever, while a feral jackdaw coughed roughly in a pine tree outside.
Dashing the sinister requeim, I replaced it with curiosity while the fumbling couple continued their forbidden kisses. The boy was familiar to me.
It stayed this way for a time, as if my dream had stalled and trapped me inside the very heart of romance. A potent brew, innocence and daring.
Finally I tore my eyes from the couple and noticed a sign above the library exit: God is Love, Love is Power. An odd sign for a book temple. These were places notorious for their love of peace and quiet, almost DEMANDING them yet this sign seemed to yell at me louder than a storm.
'Funny old thing,' I whispered, dropping my eyes onto the still open pages of a Blyton in my paw.
I was barely into the fourth paragraph when I heard a sound like a pin drop from the direction of the young lovers. I glanced over and was shocked to see them no longer snuggling into each other but sitting quite a distance apart. Both were looking down at the floor, hiding an obvious sorrow.
Something glinted at the boys feet. It was the pin I had heard moments earlier, but was not actually pin at all. As I focused on the shining article I saw it was a single tear, still wet but solid looking. The boy wept hard, a little imp of sadness.
Hanging Around For Charlotte (prt III)
I wanted to rush to him, wanted the reason for the change in climate. Why so cold? So desperate looking? What chance Love in hell?
I needed to know it all there and then. All the history of yesterday and promises of tomorrow.
Taking a deep breath I had started to walk toward the child when he produced a packet of cigarettes from a pocket in his trousers, took one out, placed it expertly between his lips and sparked up. Right underneath the NO SMOKING sign, paying no attention to my presence.
I watched him inhale his first chug, then looked towrds the girl who was still bowed and weeping.
Then almost as if it were instinct, I retreated and put my head around a shelf as if I were the young lad's look out. The two crab people had disappeard, and I scanned the library to look for the chubby book keeper behind her desk. Nobody, she too had vanished. Then I heard it. The sound of steel being sharpened on stone; it was coming from the back of the building. As I crept closer to the source it grew more and more painful sounding, like a paper cut.
The composer of this whine was no stranger to agony I told myself, coming to a halt near the fire escape.
It was now in front of me but still out of sight. I narrowed my eyes in an attempt to fight an approaching darkness, and there in the rising shadowy clutches of the bookshelves I saw the hooded cowl of Death itself, its back to me. Clinging to one of the steel supports to stop myself falling into the quicksand I was certain was beneath me, I held my breath as if hiding it from the bony harvester a spit away.
I shuffled my feet to turn tail as the chilling whine continued to run along the ancient blade. It was Death's sound! Slowly I edged away back to the lullaby confines of the children's section, careful not to snag a piece of clothing on a shelf.
Ages passed as I fingered my way, title by title along the rows of books. As I got nearer to where the two children sat a strong smell of cigarettes tickled my nose, and I quickly had to stifle a laugh before reaching sight of the pair. The air was thick with smoke, and next to the boy's pin tear on the floor lay his empty packet.
I was about ready to make my presence known to them when the fire alarm burst into life. Dull and intermittent at first but within seconds it wailed throughout the building. I looked wildly about, suddenly feeling a bite colder than envy on my ankles. Glancing down expecting to see Death's scythe lapping at a fatal wound, a reality storm hit me like a punch. No blood, none at all. No Old Man Death, no children. All I saw was water running in hysterics from the tap I must have kicked into life during my dope slumber.
Death's library shattered onto the bath's floor.
Relieved I let the freezing water splash my feet and shins until I'd shaken the last drop of madness out of my head. Stepping out of my temporary casket I heard alarm bells once again, sounding more familiar this time. I sensed a feminine shrill to them, and like an addict hitting a vein I realised: the doorbell!
I took the stairs three to every step, only counting two squelches from my drenched boots as I hit the bottom.
The doorbell stung again firing my heart up into my throat as I jammed the key into the feisty lock and screwed it. Yanking my door open I came face to face with an unwelcome explosion that knocked me backward.
I kicked at the flames which crept over my doorstep, seething to my feet. Through the acrid yellow I saw a lone figure, ghostly and macabre, but in the same instant, beautiful and Love-you-so.
Offering a hand I mouthed a secret pledge. And in seconds I was where I always belonged...
I needed to know it all there and then. All the history of yesterday and promises of tomorrow.
Taking a deep breath I had started to walk toward the child when he produced a packet of cigarettes from a pocket in his trousers, took one out, placed it expertly between his lips and sparked up. Right underneath the NO SMOKING sign, paying no attention to my presence.
I watched him inhale his first chug, then looked towrds the girl who was still bowed and weeping.
Then almost as if it were instinct, I retreated and put my head around a shelf as if I were the young lad's look out. The two crab people had disappeard, and I scanned the library to look for the chubby book keeper behind her desk. Nobody, she too had vanished. Then I heard it. The sound of steel being sharpened on stone; it was coming from the back of the building. As I crept closer to the source it grew more and more painful sounding, like a paper cut.
The composer of this whine was no stranger to agony I told myself, coming to a halt near the fire escape.
It was now in front of me but still out of sight. I narrowed my eyes in an attempt to fight an approaching darkness, and there in the rising shadowy clutches of the bookshelves I saw the hooded cowl of Death itself, its back to me. Clinging to one of the steel supports to stop myself falling into the quicksand I was certain was beneath me, I held my breath as if hiding it from the bony harvester a spit away.
I shuffled my feet to turn tail as the chilling whine continued to run along the ancient blade. It was Death's sound! Slowly I edged away back to the lullaby confines of the children's section, careful not to snag a piece of clothing on a shelf.
Ages passed as I fingered my way, title by title along the rows of books. As I got nearer to where the two children sat a strong smell of cigarettes tickled my nose, and I quickly had to stifle a laugh before reaching sight of the pair. The air was thick with smoke, and next to the boy's pin tear on the floor lay his empty packet.
I was about ready to make my presence known to them when the fire alarm burst into life. Dull and intermittent at first but within seconds it wailed throughout the building. I looked wildly about, suddenly feeling a bite colder than envy on my ankles. Glancing down expecting to see Death's scythe lapping at a fatal wound, a reality storm hit me like a punch. No blood, none at all. No Old Man Death, no children. All I saw was water running in hysterics from the tap I must have kicked into life during my dope slumber.
Death's library shattered onto the bath's floor.
Relieved I let the freezing water splash my feet and shins until I'd shaken the last drop of madness out of my head. Stepping out of my temporary casket I heard alarm bells once again, sounding more familiar this time. I sensed a feminine shrill to them, and like an addict hitting a vein I realised: the doorbell!
I took the stairs three to every step, only counting two squelches from my drenched boots as I hit the bottom.
The doorbell stung again firing my heart up into my throat as I jammed the key into the feisty lock and screwed it. Yanking my door open I came face to face with an unwelcome explosion that knocked me backward.
I kicked at the flames which crept over my doorstep, seething to my feet. Through the acrid yellow I saw a lone figure, ghostly and macabre, but in the same instant, beautiful and Love-you-so.
Offering a hand I mouthed a secret pledge. And in seconds I was where I always belonged...
Monday 21 September 2009
A Drunk Ghoul Hanging Out On Sober Forums
The spike on my chart just went up a tick. No longer satisfied with buzzing off websites with information of executions and maximum security facilities, I now find myself hovering in online sober communities. Drink in hand I wade through dozens of desperate posts on the message boards, looking for tragedy in the words.
Pretty things hold no interest to me. If everythings perfect then there's no drama, no reason to stay save briefly bathe in soft light. Beauty gets boring real quick but there are wonderful things in the darkness; honesty, sincerity, compassion, meekness, courage. One never sees these traits beyond the gate of perfection. In candy mansions is where all the playboys and designer oxycontin women hang out and spew their worthless drivel, and these are the sincerely ugly.
Walking throughg labyrinths of shadows among creatures in distress is what does it for me. I do not have thrills from witnessing suffering, more I feed off the atmosphere that chaos creates. In amongst the hoardes of monsters and ghouls one will find real pictures of delight, no plastic culture that is as weak as a sieve.
The inmate in solitary confinement, tearing at his prison jumpsuit, barking at the moon. Or a grieving alcoholic, weeping over a lost lover. This is where the action is, the bungee jump over Cocytus. There is a swagger to the wild man and grace in broken tattooed angels which is not seen in the contented.
So from my perch in front of the computer screen I scroll down searching for rancid stories, seizing them with a quickening pulse in anticipation because the torn are truly elegant.
Trendy Molly pouring her veneered curves into designer dresses and teetering around in the latest Jimmy Choo ankle traps might be to the mutton headed poseurs liking, but poor Moll cannot hold a blowtorch to shrouds or lavender. Death has a style of its own.
The light knots in oak coffin lids, a glint of light on recently brought up intestinal blood and frail cobwebs, crisp with morning dew. Each of these reeks with astonishing beauty. And many more scenes from the pit could join these to form a morbid pageant. Fragments of the dying, grand sea bound jewels that no human could design.
I have no interest in going to a zoo to see the peacock or wild flowers. I appreciate their awesome colours but its too perfect. The shapes and splashes are too neat; so neat in face that they resemble drawings from colouring books and that makes too much sense. There ought to be anarchy in the painter's palette. A wreckless streak distorting the image.
Look at a Spring morning in the country: early sun rising over hills, lambs skipping without care on lush green fields. Grand but at the same time boring. Now add a thunderstorm or two and a fox lurking, weighing the odds on the lamb and the scence becomes infinately more beautiful.
There must be something sinister, or unfortunate on the horizon to satisfy me. Its neither gothic or evil, its just Life with a capital L.
Pretty things hold no interest to me. If everythings perfect then there's no drama, no reason to stay save briefly bathe in soft light. Beauty gets boring real quick but there are wonderful things in the darkness; honesty, sincerity, compassion, meekness, courage. One never sees these traits beyond the gate of perfection. In candy mansions is where all the playboys and designer oxycontin women hang out and spew their worthless drivel, and these are the sincerely ugly.
Walking throughg labyrinths of shadows among creatures in distress is what does it for me. I do not have thrills from witnessing suffering, more I feed off the atmosphere that chaos creates. In amongst the hoardes of monsters and ghouls one will find real pictures of delight, no plastic culture that is as weak as a sieve.
The inmate in solitary confinement, tearing at his prison jumpsuit, barking at the moon. Or a grieving alcoholic, weeping over a lost lover. This is where the action is, the bungee jump over Cocytus. There is a swagger to the wild man and grace in broken tattooed angels which is not seen in the contented.
So from my perch in front of the computer screen I scroll down searching for rancid stories, seizing them with a quickening pulse in anticipation because the torn are truly elegant.
Trendy Molly pouring her veneered curves into designer dresses and teetering around in the latest Jimmy Choo ankle traps might be to the mutton headed poseurs liking, but poor Moll cannot hold a blowtorch to shrouds or lavender. Death has a style of its own.
The light knots in oak coffin lids, a glint of light on recently brought up intestinal blood and frail cobwebs, crisp with morning dew. Each of these reeks with astonishing beauty. And many more scenes from the pit could join these to form a morbid pageant. Fragments of the dying, grand sea bound jewels that no human could design.
I have no interest in going to a zoo to see the peacock or wild flowers. I appreciate their awesome colours but its too perfect. The shapes and splashes are too neat; so neat in face that they resemble drawings from colouring books and that makes too much sense. There ought to be anarchy in the painter's palette. A wreckless streak distorting the image.
Look at a Spring morning in the country: early sun rising over hills, lambs skipping without care on lush green fields. Grand but at the same time boring. Now add a thunderstorm or two and a fox lurking, weighing the odds on the lamb and the scence becomes infinately more beautiful.
There must be something sinister, or unfortunate on the horizon to satisfy me. Its neither gothic or evil, its just Life with a capital L.
Sunday 20 September 2009
Sniping Under Broken Halos
Tabloid newspapers are vile. There Ive said it. They only exist to 'entertain' the nose on sleeve crew, and those who believe pushchairs and cigarettes are a stylish combination.
Of course this is not a new revelation to me. The tawdry headlines that have screamed from news stalls ever since I was old enough to disinguish Ale from Lager, long ago convinced me that nothing good is in them. However much they set up charities, or feelgood stories 'For Our Lads Overseas' they still peddle shit and myth.
Dirt sells and the biggest whores are those red topped reprobates: the moral guardians as they would like to be known. Yes quite. Do they really think we believe them when they inform us that their reporter 'made his excuses and left'? Are we taken in by their concern over a drug addicted D list karaoke singer?
No, the saints are deluded and everyone with a thinking mind knows that the reporter threw his excuses from the bedroom window, and the only concern they have for karaoke Sharon is when next to shakedown the secret cameras for her exclusive binge.
They are utterly revolting, as are the cretins who sell their stories/souls. Tales of drug addiction, false rapes, breakdowns, food binges, the woe never ends. And the smaller the name the more extreme the accusations. Roll up! Roll up! Come and watch the freaks perform in a shameless orgy of self promotion. No shred of talent is needed in the tabloid kingdom.
And what of the columnists of these cheap rags? Nothing but egomaniacs and rats, interested in nothing but becoming a celebrity themselves. Every day they splash their inarticulate nonsense across pages in bile inducing self righteous pomp, and the ogres lap it up.
They know who they are, and the public ought let them drown in their own odious juices. Unforunately there are always more stones than diamonds so the cheap circus will roll on, belching its unholy fumes as it goes.
Reality television and tabloid newspapers go hand in hand like some sick monstrosity fumbling for an ounce of decency but finding none. They should be ashamed but never will be. In order to feel shame one must have a soul.
Of course this is not a new revelation to me. The tawdry headlines that have screamed from news stalls ever since I was old enough to disinguish Ale from Lager, long ago convinced me that nothing good is in them. However much they set up charities, or feelgood stories 'For Our Lads Overseas' they still peddle shit and myth.
Dirt sells and the biggest whores are those red topped reprobates: the moral guardians as they would like to be known. Yes quite. Do they really think we believe them when they inform us that their reporter 'made his excuses and left'? Are we taken in by their concern over a drug addicted D list karaoke singer?
No, the saints are deluded and everyone with a thinking mind knows that the reporter threw his excuses from the bedroom window, and the only concern they have for karaoke Sharon is when next to shakedown the secret cameras for her exclusive binge.
They are utterly revolting, as are the cretins who sell their stories/souls. Tales of drug addiction, false rapes, breakdowns, food binges, the woe never ends. And the smaller the name the more extreme the accusations. Roll up! Roll up! Come and watch the freaks perform in a shameless orgy of self promotion. No shred of talent is needed in the tabloid kingdom.
And what of the columnists of these cheap rags? Nothing but egomaniacs and rats, interested in nothing but becoming a celebrity themselves. Every day they splash their inarticulate nonsense across pages in bile inducing self righteous pomp, and the ogres lap it up.
They know who they are, and the public ought let them drown in their own odious juices. Unforunately there are always more stones than diamonds so the cheap circus will roll on, belching its unholy fumes as it goes.
Reality television and tabloid newspapers go hand in hand like some sick monstrosity fumbling for an ounce of decency but finding none. They should be ashamed but never will be. In order to feel shame one must have a soul.
Friday 18 September 2009
Iron Abacus Oiled By Spit
School was never about learning for me. It was about cruelty and survival, both on its part and mine, and the blackboards were mirrors. Pitch.
Some days were fine but most days I had to speak so the bad outshone the good. I hated speaking.
'He's the one they call Dr.Feelgood! He's the one that makes you feel aaalriiight!' (Spray deoderant) 'He's the one they call Dr.Feelgood, he's gonna be your Frankenstein!' (Razor sound) 'Dum de dum Dr.Feelgood, he's the one that makes you feel aaalriiight!' (Razor stops)'Mam! Whats for breakfast? Im just getting my books ready for school!'
Mornings were never like that. My mornings were more like: (Toilet flushes) Mam! I don't feel well! Can't go to school today, ive got a tumour on my lip the size of Carmarthen! Mam, are you listening?'
And all the time im burying my half eaten homework under the floorboards, and setting fire to my gym kit.
'Mam! A note!'
There would be no sympathy mind, not for me or my brother. Id hear footsteps coming from the kitchen.
(Mothers shriek) 'Get to school! You wait til your father gets home!' And I would sink my head deep into the pillow, trying for more sleep, fishing for dreams, or death, a place to hide. I didn't know what to do; maybe just maybe if I vomitted and wretched my guts up and flushed them down the toilet I might escape this horror. Every word my mother yelled was laced with razors.
On school days I tried so hard to die.
'Get to school!' Really she only wanted to get drunk, so I left. (Door shut)
Everyone walked in groups toward the bus stop. Not me. I was alone, a new sports bag dragged at my side. It was forever raining too, I bet that was a omen.
And the bus ride! That damned trip took hours, when in reality it was fifteen minutes. Wheels thundering over hell beneath.
(Brats voice) 'Urghh! Don't sit next to him! He smells!'
(Second brat) 'Hey freak! Snogged a girl yet?'
All the time id pray for silence on the radio because if songs played: (Pishew! Pishew! Pishew!) Arrows would come, sticking into my ribs, jabbing my kidneys and I would not have had the heart to continue past the school gates.
But I always arrived in one piece. Only once was a song ever played, and only once I died.
I had friends at school, twins (Maisy & Jen)and a red ferret called Tank. However looking back it was no more friendship than it was sypathy. The worst part of school was the first quarter hour before assembly.
'A-Ba Boo! A-Ba Boo! Hey boys have you thought of wwhat you're gggoing to do after leaving school?' Maisy and Jen shake their culry heads.
'Im gggoing to pick bblackberries and sleep in a cccoal sack!'
Maisy gives Jen an awkward look. Suddenly without warning its here:(School bell rings)
'F**k!' I think to myself. Another day ruined.
We all filed into the assembly hall as if about to recieve a death sentence, and there he stood: the headmaster, center stage, four foot above everyone else. A big clown. A big, fat, greasy, black clown doing an impression of a shaved orang utang. He spoke as if in permenant rage, but I didn't listen. I never listened to anyone, that path leads to madness.
I was always looking out for the feller who fainted. Someone always fainted, perhaps two or three did if I was lucky. Face first onto the oak floor. It dissrupted the orang utang onstage but only for a minute.
(Angry voice) 'I have reason to believe that somebody is selling cigarettes at this school! Furthermore intimate relationships have begun in the woods behind the building! Teachers cannot put up with this squalid behaviour!'
And all the while I'd stand grinning under my bowl haircut.
'Ten hail Marys!' And prayer would begin. Dull mantras, cobweb covered hymns. Occasionaly pleasant but always sour.
After this circus my attention ebbed away in fists of frustration.
I would look around.
'Hey Maisy, nnno ones fainted yet!' 'So what? Have you got bets on?' 'No just an interest in fainting.'
I'd watch the antics on stage. 'Nayyrhmumble!' The ape clown headmaster would still be at it, and his deputy (nicknamed Mouse), scanned the rows of pupils with false teeth in his pockets and bible at his side. Cruel chap, full of religion.
My thoughts were far from saintly. 'Where's the incredible collapsing boy?' I wondererd. 'Come on! Fall down! Dust the floor you pale ogre!'
Suddenly (Loud Thud)
A try for the sickly child! Well fainted boy! We would all cringe and shrink into our shoes, and assembly would be over, fractured by hilarity.
First lesson of the day on Wednesday would be English. (Sound of handcuff ratchets tightened) Cuffed up would walk sheepishly into the classroom, handing in homework. For a silent ten minutes, the teacher, bug eyed Mr Samuel, would read our efforts while we sat numb at desks, chewing fingers to bone.
'Shit!' Id say to nobody. 'Did I do it properly? Was there enough pretty words?' Then my name echoed through the room and I would be forced to stand in front of class, wearing a newly aquired gold star, polished like a teachers pet, and ordered to read aloud my work.
'Krrrrsssccchhhhwweeeetsssttt!' Covering my punk audience in saliva, which they'd return by mocked laughter. Stoned by chunks of embarrassment.
'Well done boy!' My only reward. I'd sit back down and try drowning in shame. Or try at least to take some solice in whispering poetry to myself:
'No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
but he lay like a warrior taking his rest
with his martial cloak around him.'
Next would come a yawn and the first break of the day (School Bell Rings)
Everyone waddled off to find their own cliques, smoking and fingering each other behind the sheds. Stereotype in dolby surround.
Id try and find Maisy. I knew Jen would be spilling sweet troubles into the ear of the school pin up, he was never that fussy. He looked a great lover alright but when it came down to the job Id bet he always f**ked it up.
Searching the playground, Maisy had disappeared. Into the canteen Id go, children stuffing their gills with dry hot dogs..
Im sure I saw Mr Rees the chemistry teacher, in the kitchen trying to show one of the dinner ladies how to use a bunsen burner. At least thats what I think he was doing.
Out I would walk, almost pining for Maisy. Then as I was staring through the school fence like a prisoner of war there was something behind me. (Sound of a lighter flicking) It was Mrs Pip, the pain in the arse, the smokers cough. He was in my class; suntanned with freckles and always carrying a cigarette. So Id smoke with him a while, he would chat, and chat and jib jabber his copper frosted head off. God only knew about what. I was too busy counting his impressive freckle collection.
(School Bell Screams) It was geography next, taught by John Poof, who was forever getting teased by Huw the Gyp and Mojo. He could nnever control a class, he was like a naked lion tamer with a dusting brush. He had no defence from the insults class 3 Gwellian hurled at him every day. To us he was just another pupil who happened to have a camp moustache. He quit not long after being bullied by us. Nervous breakdown. I quite liked him.
However I could never concentrate in geography because the classroom was right next to Mr Rosser's class. He taught physics and would lecture pupils on the dangers of smoking while always nipping to the teachers mess to smoke until his eyes were yellow. He'd emerge sucking a polo mint in a vain attempt to mask the odour but whenever he stood next to you it was (Cough) like having a lung full of cancer.
'Shouldn't smoke chaps, should never smoke!' (Violent spluttering)
I don't think he smokes any longer.
(School bell rings longer)
The lesson before dinner was Biology. It was silent. Always was. I'm certain the teacher was an elf. Dr Owen, with tiny pixie ears pointed like a cocktail stick, she used to scurry around the grey sinks like a shrew looking for shelter.
She would lecture on the rights of trees and plants, on the right of animals (while elbow deep in frogs innards) and all the time I would be being offered sex, the only time I ever was, by Jeremy Jemima Jones at the back of class. A fine big boned girl with a moon round face like myself. What she saw in me I'll never know but she saw something. Perhaps she liked ghouls.
I kept hold of my virginity. I stuffed it in my sports bag and ran away to dinner. Off to the canteen, rushing past sixth formers trying out new drugs in a corner. Straight in, first in the queue. 'Hhhha...' Whoosh! I was skipped, I fumbled the words and the grumpy bag pissed on me.
So I starved. Oliver Pissed, the boy who couldn't ask for more. But what an hour dinner was! Maisy and Jen had sloped off somewhere so I was left to my own deviant devices.
(Sound of rugby ball being kicked follwed by breaking glass)
'Boy! Get in here NOW!'
'Yes sir.'
I hated standing outside the headmasters office/orang utangs lair, waiting for the cane. It was like awaiting death by lethal injection, and just before the cane fell the caped clown would ask your religious denomination.
'Catholic?'
'No sir.'
Presbyterian?'
'No sir.'
'Methodist then?'
'I really couldn't say sir. Whenever I think of religion I bring bile...'
'Six of the BEST!' (Six lashes land on my palm)
And off I'd go to sting and simmer the rest of the break, and sit under a tree to immerse myself in more poetry.
(Whispers)
When I went into my room at mid morning,
say ten o'clock...
My room, a crash box over that great stone rattle
the Via de Bardi...
I heard the shouts.
'Look at him! He's a weird boy!'
When I went into my room at mid morning
why? A bird!
A bird
flying round the room in insane circles!
In insanes circles!
A bat!
'Hey strange boy, look at me!'
A disgusting bat.
Out! Go out!
Round and round and round
with a twitchy, nervous, intolerable flight.
And a neurasthenic lunge,
and an impure frenzy.
A bat, big as a swallow.
Out, out of my room!
And I'd shout at all the boys and girls, the vagabonds and princes, the drunk and sober: 'Just leave me alone! Be hushed to me! My tree and me! Be silent!'
Mr Jones would walk over. 'Hmm I think you need seeing to child. Write out a hundred times...' And since he could never be bothered to finish what he was saying I simply wrote, 'Mrs Priestland is shagging Mr Williams' a hundred times and get deeper in trouble.
That was lunch time for me. Starved, picked on and punished. Then came the big (Bell Rings) fat (Bell Rings) knotted (Bell Rings) bitch of an afternoon.
It was only three lessons, one dose of Religious Scripture and a double helping of Welsh and sweet hell we were going to have fun.
Miss Morgans taught the religion in Welsh. She was fresh out of university with curves to die on and giant pinapple tits. Everytime she turned around and I glimpsed her tight skirt from behind I did a magic trick inbetween my legs. (Sound of spraying water)
Of course it wasn't intentional. I could already hear mother sreaming 'gettobed! Gettobed you filthy sod!' But I couldn't help it, miss Morgasm was pure thrills to my rancid imagination. I did my best to impress her.
(Psalm 4)
I'd whisper the text on and on, never tripping on my tongue. My fellow pupils were aghast! He can speak! He's been cured! Oh Lord be praised! Religious Studies has cured the boy with a broken mouth! I would beam at miss Morgans, inhaling her perfume like it was cocaine.
'Lets get drunk together miss! Let me rip your stocking with my teeth, to hell with morals!' (Slap) Back to normal now: 'Abu, wedi i'r Iesu orffen y gggeiriau hhyn oll, efe a ddddywedodd wrth eei dddissgyblion..' all the class would spit, giggle and point.
'A Mab y dyn a draddodir i'w groeshoelio.'
A shambles of a verse in Welsh. Mathew 26 cut with my scissors.
Occasionaly I did poetry readings at the back of the class whrn the teacher wasn't listening. 'Go on Steven, read us some of your poetry!' Maisy would nag, trying to encourage as best he could. 'Okay' I'd nod one eye on my poetry, the other on the teacher who was writing something painful sounding on the blackboard. '2 Kittensanacat' A mutter went through my tiny audience. 'Bloody strange title.'
(Recite poem)
'Oooh thats good!' and 'what are you on?' would be my applause. and I would hide but the teacher would swirl around quickly, PHITT! An ink pellet to the eye, there ending my poetry for the day.
The rust broke. (Bell Rings)
It was time for the double dose of Welsh. I forget the name of the teacher, her name was so special that death took it with him, but her face looked like it had been caved in by a JCB and her hair was black as tar. Her voice a cheesegrater in heavy bass, she loved Dylan Thomas and delighted in making me blush on his every word.
(In Welsh)
'Steven, would you read a liitle please?' She had a dragging drug addict tone. 'Read as much as you can theres a good boy.' As if craving another fix.
'Yes miss, The Outing.' Rubber bands filled my mouth.
'If yyyou cccan call it a ssstory. There's nnno rrreal bbeginning or end and ttthere's very little in the mmmiddle....'
'Thats enough Steven!' And off she'd go for a hit in the toilet.
I remember one day our Welsh lesson was taken over by Dr Johns, a red beast of a man. A prick with a temper. No doubt the usual teacher had taken the day off to score more dope.
On this particular day he asked me to read another story aloud. I started reading and sure enough the machine guns kicked in. He stopped me suddenly mid sentence. 'Steven have you ever thought about seeking help for that speech? As a matter of interest, how did you acquire this impediment?'
Noone had ever asked me that before and I was taken aback. I told the truth.
'Well sir, I went on a family trip to Bristol zoo when I was eight years old and got too close to a monkeys cage. The creature pulled me against the bars and....'
'Are you taking the rise boy?'
It was the truth which took me to the headmasters/orang utangs office that day for the usual religious interrogation and the swift stings on my hand. On my way back to the lesson I met with a teacher. 'What have you been in the headmasters office for now Steven?'
'The truth.' I replied.
I sat mute through the rest of the red beasts lesson.
'No more of your nonsense now Francis! Take another pill if you get lonely.'
It was the last I ever saw of Dr Johns. The Welsh junkie returned from then on. She used to end the lesson by saying a word, the first person to spell this word correctly was allowed to leave five minutes early. 'Cigarette' she offered one day and my hand shot into the air.
'Go ahead Steven,' she dribbled.
'C.I.G.A.R.E.T.T.E' And I mimed the action of smoking one. It must have reminded her of taking whatever she was high on because with that she unshackled me and threw out the rest of the class as well.
(Bell Rings) And she would go to score.
It was like being released from prison. Maisy and I would hold hands as we made our way to the school bus, with me singing 'These Boots Are Made For Walking!'
School was finished for the day, and straight off the bus I would run home where mother was already drunk and talking foreign. I always ignored father, he was never any good.
'Mam, you're insane and i'm sorry for this morning. Can I go out now?' And off I'd go to play by myself in trees, in rivers, in graveyards and chapels, in haunted houses. One hand down the front of my trousers to feel if I was still alive.
'Did I do well in school today God? Did I behave?'
No answer. And so it remained for five terrible school years, until I finally bid farewell to Maisy and Jen, and leprous drug addicted teachers, went back to my room, folded my arms and went quietly insane.
Some days were fine but most days I had to speak so the bad outshone the good. I hated speaking.
'He's the one they call Dr.Feelgood! He's the one that makes you feel aaalriiight!' (Spray deoderant) 'He's the one they call Dr.Feelgood, he's gonna be your Frankenstein!' (Razor sound) 'Dum de dum Dr.Feelgood, he's the one that makes you feel aaalriiight!' (Razor stops)'Mam! Whats for breakfast? Im just getting my books ready for school!'
Mornings were never like that. My mornings were more like: (Toilet flushes) Mam! I don't feel well! Can't go to school today, ive got a tumour on my lip the size of Carmarthen! Mam, are you listening?'
And all the time im burying my half eaten homework under the floorboards, and setting fire to my gym kit.
'Mam! A note!'
There would be no sympathy mind, not for me or my brother. Id hear footsteps coming from the kitchen.
(Mothers shriek) 'Get to school! You wait til your father gets home!' And I would sink my head deep into the pillow, trying for more sleep, fishing for dreams, or death, a place to hide. I didn't know what to do; maybe just maybe if I vomitted and wretched my guts up and flushed them down the toilet I might escape this horror. Every word my mother yelled was laced with razors.
On school days I tried so hard to die.
'Get to school!' Really she only wanted to get drunk, so I left. (Door shut)
Everyone walked in groups toward the bus stop. Not me. I was alone, a new sports bag dragged at my side. It was forever raining too, I bet that was a omen.
And the bus ride! That damned trip took hours, when in reality it was fifteen minutes. Wheels thundering over hell beneath.
(Brats voice) 'Urghh! Don't sit next to him! He smells!'
(Second brat) 'Hey freak! Snogged a girl yet?'
All the time id pray for silence on the radio because if songs played: (Pishew! Pishew! Pishew!) Arrows would come, sticking into my ribs, jabbing my kidneys and I would not have had the heart to continue past the school gates.
But I always arrived in one piece. Only once was a song ever played, and only once I died.
I had friends at school, twins (Maisy & Jen)and a red ferret called Tank. However looking back it was no more friendship than it was sypathy. The worst part of school was the first quarter hour before assembly.
'A-Ba Boo! A-Ba Boo! Hey boys have you thought of wwhat you're gggoing to do after leaving school?' Maisy and Jen shake their culry heads.
'Im gggoing to pick bblackberries and sleep in a cccoal sack!'
Maisy gives Jen an awkward look. Suddenly without warning its here:(School bell rings)
'F**k!' I think to myself. Another day ruined.
We all filed into the assembly hall as if about to recieve a death sentence, and there he stood: the headmaster, center stage, four foot above everyone else. A big clown. A big, fat, greasy, black clown doing an impression of a shaved orang utang. He spoke as if in permenant rage, but I didn't listen. I never listened to anyone, that path leads to madness.
I was always looking out for the feller who fainted. Someone always fainted, perhaps two or three did if I was lucky. Face first onto the oak floor. It dissrupted the orang utang onstage but only for a minute.
(Angry voice) 'I have reason to believe that somebody is selling cigarettes at this school! Furthermore intimate relationships have begun in the woods behind the building! Teachers cannot put up with this squalid behaviour!'
And all the while I'd stand grinning under my bowl haircut.
'Ten hail Marys!' And prayer would begin. Dull mantras, cobweb covered hymns. Occasionaly pleasant but always sour.
After this circus my attention ebbed away in fists of frustration.
I would look around.
'Hey Maisy, nnno ones fainted yet!' 'So what? Have you got bets on?' 'No just an interest in fainting.'
I'd watch the antics on stage. 'Nayyrhmumble!' The ape clown headmaster would still be at it, and his deputy (nicknamed Mouse), scanned the rows of pupils with false teeth in his pockets and bible at his side. Cruel chap, full of religion.
My thoughts were far from saintly. 'Where's the incredible collapsing boy?' I wondererd. 'Come on! Fall down! Dust the floor you pale ogre!'
Suddenly (Loud Thud)
A try for the sickly child! Well fainted boy! We would all cringe and shrink into our shoes, and assembly would be over, fractured by hilarity.
First lesson of the day on Wednesday would be English. (Sound of handcuff ratchets tightened) Cuffed up would walk sheepishly into the classroom, handing in homework. For a silent ten minutes, the teacher, bug eyed Mr Samuel, would read our efforts while we sat numb at desks, chewing fingers to bone.
'Shit!' Id say to nobody. 'Did I do it properly? Was there enough pretty words?' Then my name echoed through the room and I would be forced to stand in front of class, wearing a newly aquired gold star, polished like a teachers pet, and ordered to read aloud my work.
'Krrrrsssccchhhhwweeeetsssttt!' Covering my punk audience in saliva, which they'd return by mocked laughter. Stoned by chunks of embarrassment.
'Well done boy!' My only reward. I'd sit back down and try drowning in shame. Or try at least to take some solice in whispering poetry to myself:
'No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
but he lay like a warrior taking his rest
with his martial cloak around him.'
Next would come a yawn and the first break of the day (School Bell Rings)
Everyone waddled off to find their own cliques, smoking and fingering each other behind the sheds. Stereotype in dolby surround.
Id try and find Maisy. I knew Jen would be spilling sweet troubles into the ear of the school pin up, he was never that fussy. He looked a great lover alright but when it came down to the job Id bet he always f**ked it up.
Searching the playground, Maisy had disappeared. Into the canteen Id go, children stuffing their gills with dry hot dogs..
Im sure I saw Mr Rees the chemistry teacher, in the kitchen trying to show one of the dinner ladies how to use a bunsen burner. At least thats what I think he was doing.
Out I would walk, almost pining for Maisy. Then as I was staring through the school fence like a prisoner of war there was something behind me. (Sound of a lighter flicking) It was Mrs Pip, the pain in the arse, the smokers cough. He was in my class; suntanned with freckles and always carrying a cigarette. So Id smoke with him a while, he would chat, and chat and jib jabber his copper frosted head off. God only knew about what. I was too busy counting his impressive freckle collection.
(School Bell Screams) It was geography next, taught by John Poof, who was forever getting teased by Huw the Gyp and Mojo. He could nnever control a class, he was like a naked lion tamer with a dusting brush. He had no defence from the insults class 3 Gwellian hurled at him every day. To us he was just another pupil who happened to have a camp moustache. He quit not long after being bullied by us. Nervous breakdown. I quite liked him.
However I could never concentrate in geography because the classroom was right next to Mr Rosser's class. He taught physics and would lecture pupils on the dangers of smoking while always nipping to the teachers mess to smoke until his eyes were yellow. He'd emerge sucking a polo mint in a vain attempt to mask the odour but whenever he stood next to you it was (Cough) like having a lung full of cancer.
'Shouldn't smoke chaps, should never smoke!' (Violent spluttering)
I don't think he smokes any longer.
(School bell rings longer)
The lesson before dinner was Biology. It was silent. Always was. I'm certain the teacher was an elf. Dr Owen, with tiny pixie ears pointed like a cocktail stick, she used to scurry around the grey sinks like a shrew looking for shelter.
She would lecture on the rights of trees and plants, on the right of animals (while elbow deep in frogs innards) and all the time I would be being offered sex, the only time I ever was, by Jeremy Jemima Jones at the back of class. A fine big boned girl with a moon round face like myself. What she saw in me I'll never know but she saw something. Perhaps she liked ghouls.
I kept hold of my virginity. I stuffed it in my sports bag and ran away to dinner. Off to the canteen, rushing past sixth formers trying out new drugs in a corner. Straight in, first in the queue. 'Hhhha...' Whoosh! I was skipped, I fumbled the words and the grumpy bag pissed on me.
So I starved. Oliver Pissed, the boy who couldn't ask for more. But what an hour dinner was! Maisy and Jen had sloped off somewhere so I was left to my own deviant devices.
(Sound of rugby ball being kicked follwed by breaking glass)
'Boy! Get in here NOW!'
'Yes sir.'
I hated standing outside the headmasters office/orang utangs lair, waiting for the cane. It was like awaiting death by lethal injection, and just before the cane fell the caped clown would ask your religious denomination.
'Catholic?'
'No sir.'
Presbyterian?'
'No sir.'
'Methodist then?'
'I really couldn't say sir. Whenever I think of religion I bring bile...'
'Six of the BEST!' (Six lashes land on my palm)
And off I'd go to sting and simmer the rest of the break, and sit under a tree to immerse myself in more poetry.
(Whispers)
When I went into my room at mid morning,
say ten o'clock...
My room, a crash box over that great stone rattle
the Via de Bardi...
I heard the shouts.
'Look at him! He's a weird boy!'
When I went into my room at mid morning
why? A bird!
A bird
flying round the room in insane circles!
In insanes circles!
A bat!
'Hey strange boy, look at me!'
A disgusting bat.
Out! Go out!
Round and round and round
with a twitchy, nervous, intolerable flight.
And a neurasthenic lunge,
and an impure frenzy.
A bat, big as a swallow.
Out, out of my room!
And I'd shout at all the boys and girls, the vagabonds and princes, the drunk and sober: 'Just leave me alone! Be hushed to me! My tree and me! Be silent!'
Mr Jones would walk over. 'Hmm I think you need seeing to child. Write out a hundred times...' And since he could never be bothered to finish what he was saying I simply wrote, 'Mrs Priestland is shagging Mr Williams' a hundred times and get deeper in trouble.
That was lunch time for me. Starved, picked on and punished. Then came the big (Bell Rings) fat (Bell Rings) knotted (Bell Rings) bitch of an afternoon.
It was only three lessons, one dose of Religious Scripture and a double helping of Welsh and sweet hell we were going to have fun.
Miss Morgans taught the religion in Welsh. She was fresh out of university with curves to die on and giant pinapple tits. Everytime she turned around and I glimpsed her tight skirt from behind I did a magic trick inbetween my legs. (Sound of spraying water)
Of course it wasn't intentional. I could already hear mother sreaming 'gettobed! Gettobed you filthy sod!' But I couldn't help it, miss Morgasm was pure thrills to my rancid imagination. I did my best to impress her.
(Psalm 4)
I'd whisper the text on and on, never tripping on my tongue. My fellow pupils were aghast! He can speak! He's been cured! Oh Lord be praised! Religious Studies has cured the boy with a broken mouth! I would beam at miss Morgans, inhaling her perfume like it was cocaine.
'Lets get drunk together miss! Let me rip your stocking with my teeth, to hell with morals!' (Slap) Back to normal now: 'Abu, wedi i'r Iesu orffen y gggeiriau hhyn oll, efe a ddddywedodd wrth eei dddissgyblion..' all the class would spit, giggle and point.
'A Mab y dyn a draddodir i'w groeshoelio.'
A shambles of a verse in Welsh. Mathew 26 cut with my scissors.
Occasionaly I did poetry readings at the back of the class whrn the teacher wasn't listening. 'Go on Steven, read us some of your poetry!' Maisy would nag, trying to encourage as best he could. 'Okay' I'd nod one eye on my poetry, the other on the teacher who was writing something painful sounding on the blackboard. '2 Kittensanacat' A mutter went through my tiny audience. 'Bloody strange title.'
(Recite poem)
'Oooh thats good!' and 'what are you on?' would be my applause. and I would hide but the teacher would swirl around quickly, PHITT! An ink pellet to the eye, there ending my poetry for the day.
The rust broke. (Bell Rings)
It was time for the double dose of Welsh. I forget the name of the teacher, her name was so special that death took it with him, but her face looked like it had been caved in by a JCB and her hair was black as tar. Her voice a cheesegrater in heavy bass, she loved Dylan Thomas and delighted in making me blush on his every word.
(In Welsh)
'Steven, would you read a liitle please?' She had a dragging drug addict tone. 'Read as much as you can theres a good boy.' As if craving another fix.
'Yes miss, The Outing.' Rubber bands filled my mouth.
'If yyyou cccan call it a ssstory. There's nnno rrreal bbeginning or end and ttthere's very little in the mmmiddle....'
'Thats enough Steven!' And off she'd go for a hit in the toilet.
I remember one day our Welsh lesson was taken over by Dr Johns, a red beast of a man. A prick with a temper. No doubt the usual teacher had taken the day off to score more dope.
On this particular day he asked me to read another story aloud. I started reading and sure enough the machine guns kicked in. He stopped me suddenly mid sentence. 'Steven have you ever thought about seeking help for that speech? As a matter of interest, how did you acquire this impediment?'
Noone had ever asked me that before and I was taken aback. I told the truth.
'Well sir, I went on a family trip to Bristol zoo when I was eight years old and got too close to a monkeys cage. The creature pulled me against the bars and....'
'Are you taking the rise boy?'
It was the truth which took me to the headmasters/orang utangs office that day for the usual religious interrogation and the swift stings on my hand. On my way back to the lesson I met with a teacher. 'What have you been in the headmasters office for now Steven?'
'The truth.' I replied.
I sat mute through the rest of the red beasts lesson.
'No more of your nonsense now Francis! Take another pill if you get lonely.'
It was the last I ever saw of Dr Johns. The Welsh junkie returned from then on. She used to end the lesson by saying a word, the first person to spell this word correctly was allowed to leave five minutes early. 'Cigarette' she offered one day and my hand shot into the air.
'Go ahead Steven,' she dribbled.
'C.I.G.A.R.E.T.T.E' And I mimed the action of smoking one. It must have reminded her of taking whatever she was high on because with that she unshackled me and threw out the rest of the class as well.
(Bell Rings) And she would go to score.
It was like being released from prison. Maisy and I would hold hands as we made our way to the school bus, with me singing 'These Boots Are Made For Walking!'
School was finished for the day, and straight off the bus I would run home where mother was already drunk and talking foreign. I always ignored father, he was never any good.
'Mam, you're insane and i'm sorry for this morning. Can I go out now?' And off I'd go to play by myself in trees, in rivers, in graveyards and chapels, in haunted houses. One hand down the front of my trousers to feel if I was still alive.
'Did I do well in school today God? Did I behave?'
No answer. And so it remained for five terrible school years, until I finally bid farewell to Maisy and Jen, and leprous drug addicted teachers, went back to my room, folded my arms and went quietly insane.
Monday 7 September 2009
Old Mullet Kissing Grey Harbour Walls
Returning to ones home town after many years abscence, and having very little to do with the place inbetween, is a very strange experience. One that was heaped upon myself yesterday when I decided to visit my late mothers grave.
I was born and raised in Burry Port, a tiny fishing village in West Wales, where everyone lives inside each others pockets, feeding off gossip like starved pigeons. The only Gods honest real smiles found there are on Friday and Saturday evenings, when the entire town it seems congregate in its many pubs to wash away the weeks misery and woes with lager tops and bacardi.
It was a wonderful place to grow up, sandwiched between a rough sobering coast with three sleepy harbours and pea green hills which serve as a dominating background to houses, chapels and parks.
There were many places to keep a young boy entertained; the Furnace fields with its waist high ferns, newt filled ponds and narrow lanes formed by vicious brambles. The old tramline, a path which started near the park and took its walkers on a honeysuckle scented stroll alongside a bubbling river to the foot of the towns protective hills. There were the ash pit ponds along the coast, formed by waste from a power station, eerie like the surface of the moon, white grey and pitted. Home to herons and weasels, with a little cove perfect for pirate boys in summer holidays.
There were a hundred distractions and I knew them all. I knew every rope swing whipping over nasty nettles, every ramshackled den, even the underground mine shafts I was not a stranger too. The very air, a mixture of sea, oil and earth, was comfort and thrilled my lungs.
But I had moved many years ago, and although Ive always wanted to go back, I never really had good reason to other than to attend the funeral of my mother, and it was her who took me back yesterday. Good mothers always bring their sons home.
It never occurred to me how different it would feel, how cold a town it had become to me since I last stumbled with earnest along its fine roads. The second I stepped out of the car and looked toward the old iron footbridge which crosses the railway track, and leads to the main street and its short parade of shops, I felt a stranger to it all. An outsider.
As I crossed the fabled bridge, (which had been a regular hangout in my teenage years) I was met with a familiar sight: Stepney road, which runs almost straight through the town, and pubs spill out into chip shops on the opposite side. The heart of the place, busy but not so loud as you could not sleep if needed.
I had stood on part of this bridge, many many times in years long past, like a hungover buzzard watching locals and buses run around in sun and rain. The bridge had been a stage to many pranks and episodes, many alcohol fuelled, others stirred by mischievious youth.
And now as I descended the steps I felt completely out of touch. I looked around at the old Smartiland sweet shop, and the street 'corner' where gangs of locals would congregate after a night swilling in the Hope & Anchor and other taverns, and nothing stirred in me. The feeling of this town being home had entirely disappeared.
I was no longer a 'local', I knew nothing of the gossip or petty scandal that was currently brewing as they do in small communities. Indeed if it were not for my distinctive West Walian accent I could almost have passed for a tourist, visiting from the Shoreline caravan park half a mile away.
I rolled back the years in my mind, to a time where I could have gone into any pub, shop or chip shop and been welcomed by warm smiles on instantly reconisable faces. People knew me, I knew them and everyone local shared everything.
Not anymore I thought as I made my way along Station road toward the Co-op supermarket, my one time daily port for beer. Nothing but groceries would be available now, and only pints at the bar would be offererd. Enquiries into health or discussions on town developments would be off limits, for even though I was, (and still am) a 'Burry Portian, I had a different address outside of the fold.
In the car park I looked around a final time and for a minute everything came alive again; lunchtime drinkers in the old Carbay club, teenagers diving off harbour walls and the black redundant crane, Carmarthen Bay power station, that mighty red bricked building with its three giant smoke stacks reaching to the clouds and July carnivals always with its fairy queens and fisticuffs.
Its all there in my heart and these memories will never leave me, however much I leave its tiny shore. Porth Tywyn yn fy enaid.
I was born and raised in Burry Port, a tiny fishing village in West Wales, where everyone lives inside each others pockets, feeding off gossip like starved pigeons. The only Gods honest real smiles found there are on Friday and Saturday evenings, when the entire town it seems congregate in its many pubs to wash away the weeks misery and woes with lager tops and bacardi.
It was a wonderful place to grow up, sandwiched between a rough sobering coast with three sleepy harbours and pea green hills which serve as a dominating background to houses, chapels and parks.
There were many places to keep a young boy entertained; the Furnace fields with its waist high ferns, newt filled ponds and narrow lanes formed by vicious brambles. The old tramline, a path which started near the park and took its walkers on a honeysuckle scented stroll alongside a bubbling river to the foot of the towns protective hills. There were the ash pit ponds along the coast, formed by waste from a power station, eerie like the surface of the moon, white grey and pitted. Home to herons and weasels, with a little cove perfect for pirate boys in summer holidays.
There were a hundred distractions and I knew them all. I knew every rope swing whipping over nasty nettles, every ramshackled den, even the underground mine shafts I was not a stranger too. The very air, a mixture of sea, oil and earth, was comfort and thrilled my lungs.
But I had moved many years ago, and although Ive always wanted to go back, I never really had good reason to other than to attend the funeral of my mother, and it was her who took me back yesterday. Good mothers always bring their sons home.
It never occurred to me how different it would feel, how cold a town it had become to me since I last stumbled with earnest along its fine roads. The second I stepped out of the car and looked toward the old iron footbridge which crosses the railway track, and leads to the main street and its short parade of shops, I felt a stranger to it all. An outsider.
As I crossed the fabled bridge, (which had been a regular hangout in my teenage years) I was met with a familiar sight: Stepney road, which runs almost straight through the town, and pubs spill out into chip shops on the opposite side. The heart of the place, busy but not so loud as you could not sleep if needed.
I had stood on part of this bridge, many many times in years long past, like a hungover buzzard watching locals and buses run around in sun and rain. The bridge had been a stage to many pranks and episodes, many alcohol fuelled, others stirred by mischievious youth.
And now as I descended the steps I felt completely out of touch. I looked around at the old Smartiland sweet shop, and the street 'corner' where gangs of locals would congregate after a night swilling in the Hope & Anchor and other taverns, and nothing stirred in me. The feeling of this town being home had entirely disappeared.
I was no longer a 'local', I knew nothing of the gossip or petty scandal that was currently brewing as they do in small communities. Indeed if it were not for my distinctive West Walian accent I could almost have passed for a tourist, visiting from the Shoreline caravan park half a mile away.
I rolled back the years in my mind, to a time where I could have gone into any pub, shop or chip shop and been welcomed by warm smiles on instantly reconisable faces. People knew me, I knew them and everyone local shared everything.
Not anymore I thought as I made my way along Station road toward the Co-op supermarket, my one time daily port for beer. Nothing but groceries would be available now, and only pints at the bar would be offererd. Enquiries into health or discussions on town developments would be off limits, for even though I was, (and still am) a 'Burry Portian, I had a different address outside of the fold.
In the car park I looked around a final time and for a minute everything came alive again; lunchtime drinkers in the old Carbay club, teenagers diving off harbour walls and the black redundant crane, Carmarthen Bay power station, that mighty red bricked building with its three giant smoke stacks reaching to the clouds and July carnivals always with its fairy queens and fisticuffs.
Its all there in my heart and these memories will never leave me, however much I leave its tiny shore. Porth Tywyn yn fy enaid.
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