I’ve been told,
repeatedly,
by you,
that I don’t know who you are anymore!
Then you said yes,
yes I know!
and that I’ve told myself that,
many times before!
Category Archives: creative writing
The Evil Wallpaper and the Stuffy Room
I cannot speak in this room, my tongue is sewn to my inner mouth like an old rolled up, tatty, old gym mat, left tied in a locked and forgotten storage room. I am now reduced to a baby regarding my quality of speech, no-one, not even myself will understand my dialect now.
Subsequently, my eyes are like CCTV cameras, tirelessly scanning people I will never know. Such resources require feeding before I again starve myself from predictable individual markets of specialised code. Right now I do not want to buy into anything, other than some much need for some personal inanimate objects, or Mother Nature’s pleasantries.
Then, surprisingly, a section of room clears, I notice someone familiar to me; they sit directly opposite as if waiting in a crowded underground station for a train that will never arrive.
Immediately, faces and limbs move blurrily around them like a meaty aura, descaling time, they somehow cut a somewhat dominant figure with a slouching posture; sitting in an otherwise frenetic sequence of scribbled picture flick images.
All the while, a hideous wallpaper pastes the background; unnaturally large and repetitive design of supposedly beautiful coloured flowers. Seemingly this Rorschach of entangled petals also emits a pungent scent from hells garden, choking our airways ever so slowly. Or, a ladies offensive perfume that loiters excessively as she struts passed on death-defying stilts with a cocktail.
Slowly the wallpapers flowers grow, entwine and weave, swallowing all that stands near it, suffocating the lost and forgotten drones that are top-heavy while on the edge of walls made from verbalised, exhaled breath; an endless wordy fever swells the room into sickness.
Then a sudden refreshingly pure breeze blows playfully, it caresses my moist cheek, my unacquainted companion acknowledges the very same, welcomed oxygen. As I raise my right hand to my drying face, I notice at precisely the same moment they do the very same, it is as unnerving as it is welcoming.
It is then we leave the room together.
Slightly Derelict House
The half-life – existing in Ordinary Street. In a home that’s regressing, decaying at your own apprehensive feet. The curtains, undrawn, mournful in unique shades of burnt. I continuously prolong to stand; outside, be curious, where nothing can be learnt.
All that remains is allergic and weathered, bleached by an encompassing light, a colourless nothing fading from every passers sight. The welcome gate has long since gone, dissolved by powers of apathy, crumbling everything, no longer strong.
Carried on a gust, is a child’s drawing of their favourite haunted house, daring you to walk up the path like that famous miming mouse. Someone is sealed inside their novelty box. Merely do they exist, inert, in one of their cellblocks.
This was this once the warmest family home. Mum and dad, the kids, each sitting on their styled floral throne, around the television like decent and normal folk, laughing like gas leaks at dad’s latest bad joke.
If you care too much now, then you are very strange. You can’t spare the spare time and so creeps something random, unimportant, and you’ll be fine, so walk on regardless in your very British sunshine.
Giant Arcade
Dry twinkling grains
Soft sucking imprints
Moulding
Swallowing spaces
Between your toes
Temporary still
Of someone’s moment
Until erased
By unempathetic sea
A liquid giant
Sand pushing machine
Of Its own arcade
No coin-op
Frog In Fog
Do as I do said a frog in the fog,
and he flopped into a pond.
How lucky was he,
for he couldn’t look beyond.
Do as I do said the frog in the fog,
and he leapt out to dry.
How lucky was he,
for he didn’t even try.
Do as I do said the frog in the fog,
and he swallowed a fly.
How lucky was he,
for his word is no lie.
Do as I do said the frog to a toad,
suddenly some lights; dazzled, he froze.
The toad belched, you’re in the damn road!
The frog in the fog, so it goes.
Your Soundtrack
Everything feels supersized when highly meaningful,
when the sounds are resonating: orchestral.
When all we want to do is be on pause and to duplicate;
control our flickering flame;
make it dance continuously, on repeat, to keep a much needed mind-set.
The Indestructable Toy
Infuriatingly Indestructable, and at that point of my childhood (back In the 80’s) when a little destruction would do me fine. I was convinced that this truck was not a toy, but more — a test!
Somehow, forged with alien metals, this orange dump trucks’ durability bore an unforunate resemblance to that of a black box flight recorder (how can it endure such incomprehensible abrasion?). Maybe, just maybe, I’ve been living as a slow aeroplane ever since; having the good sense not to allow myself to crash, all the while i’m harbouring a toy (Yes, I don’t really need an object such as this in my daily life) but realistically knowing there is a possibility of engine failure (but il keep it anyway, because i dare not forget my nice, average boyhood).
As my nostalgic tendencies continue to serve me, Is this innocent truck a stark reminder of how fragile (It still has no dents) my adulthood can be, and in the future: will very likely be, if i’m ever so lucky to be so old that i can only remember the distant past (the black box is no longer black, but now, also orange in its colour).
Burn Holes (So Tired)
Behind lowering eyelids;
two dissolving slugs
and two ravenous,
sucking holes, burning,
inviting my skull to push through,
like two useless old bulbs
laying on clumpy, clay soil.
Today, I Buried the Car
Today, I buried the car under the garden, or enterrer la voiture sous la Jardin; it makes no difference to me. As I sit on its corroded roof of raised ochre paint and brushed steel. By coincidence, I sit at sea level to distant oceans that are full of old weather and distress.
I know there is never a sea that’s forever as level as this laid lawn, and so I recall, on purpose I left the engine running. So it is that I’m repeated to fade as time delays the dream in which I sit, statuesque, waiting on my cars dented roof, for something to erase what I didn’t mean.
Then, suddenly the car drives through the soil, searching for oil. I’m destined to travel with it. With consummate ease, I’m driven forwards, for I assume that is where I face, and above an underground road, with all speediest motion of the most stubborn small hand of a basic clock, through terrain as varied as the subconscious memories of the recent dead.
My progress never slows until I discover the edge of this world dissolving like an old cake from age, churned from its constant turning. Now I’ve slipped into another world, of some sense. As I arrive, seamlessly through a subtle zipped window, I’m suddenly driving through dull traffic, so dense; with the clumsy authority of a process mounted car on set. I’m steering the wheel, it’s looser than I imagined, it’s no use, and the scenery is a little disjointed from the direction I steer in. Maybe the next world will find me before I find it! Or before I find the brakes.
The Hexagon-Shaped-Phone
Recently, I’ve been spoken to: on a hexagon-shaped-phone. The voice was more in the phone than on it. The voice told me; real soft, that if they had to call me again, just one more time, they would tell me, most vehemently, of how much I’ve fucked up!
Then, by continuously fluffing my pillows with extinct feathers; that I had done so for the last time.
The voice then whispered for dramatic effect; saying that I had left them no choice but to – And at that moment I panicked, so I cut the voice off and have been waiting by the phone ever since!
I Eat Let.ers 