In Deep

I climb some steps in the subway, all I can smell is the dark dank piss of the nameless, those ghosts deemed unnecessary of recognition, allowing us to pass them by, pretending they don't exist. I have my sunglasses on, I'm low on sleep, I go into the shop to buy water for my sticky mouth. The floor of the shop is covered in water. I stop and look for one of those cleaning signs. I ask the shop guy if they're closed. He says no, the floor has been waxed, sorry, it's just really really shiny. I look around, the shop is empty. I think the floor is keeping your customers away, I tell him. He nods his head despondently. I climb back up the stairs and see a note on the floor, a small piece of folded paper. In blue ink I can make out the word Lucy, followed by 0771- All I have to do is open the folds, peer inside, and I'll have another number, a lead, another path to take my life down, another track to trace and pretend it is all one big narrative. But it isn't. It is chance and happenstance, and we are the choices we make, so I choose to treat this like a story no more and walk on into the sunlight.

Brick Walls

My pens are against me. Bic, ballpoint, biro, all are conspiring. Even my fancy fountain pen fell apart before I could lose it. And what should I infer from this? Should I not be writing? Should I call it quits? Or do I merely struggle through the writing block. Inspiration has left me, she is an angel no more. All the best writers steal, I guess it's just the bad ones that get caught.

Powerful Places

I’m outside Lambeth Palace, loitering; there's no other word for it, without tent, but I'm loitering nonetheless. A security guard comes out to ask me my business. Gee, I think, talk about suspicious... Until I remember that I am wearing a very large backpack, I haven't shaved and I'm wearing sunglasses. Ok, so in these post-date times, fair point. He searches me, including my half finished box of Ned's Noodles, and asks me why I'm here. I say I'm not sure, but I think I might be meeting a theologian to discuss the possibility of becoming a stand up apologist, and apparently the only place he can meet is in the Archbishop of Canterbury's living room. His wife is making us tea. The guard radio's for help, and much to my surprise, my story is confirmed and I find myself walking into the palace. I'm given some hazy directions and follow them past countless offices, gates and doors, past the Archbishop himself greeting one of the many dignitries that must frequent here, up the stairs, past a hamster spinning on a wheel, past photographs of family holidays and lengthy cricket matches, past scrawly drawings of the bearded wise one done by schoolchildren in South-East London, and into a sitting room, much like any other. I sit quietly and try to pretend this could happen to anyone.

Jitters

I was meant to go to a wedding today, but, on the way, a friend offered me a fistful of readies for two gigs in town. With the prospect of cold hard cash available I got The Fear, bailed on the ceremony and sharpened my sleeves. How could I say no? Who was I to turn down all those fresh and crispies when my green stock was running so dangerously low. I mean, I felt kinda bad about missing the wedding, especially as I’d rsvp’d an' all, but I had a need, and as all love can be bought, my guilt subsided. Then it got strange. When I turned up to the first show they cancelled the gig, everyone was out enjoying the sun, or world cup or whatever, no-one was eating. As soon as they’d wiped out on me, my phone rang and the second show pulled. Maybe I was meant to be at this wedding. Maybe it was in the stars. I looked at my watch and sixty minutes later I was in Cambridge, following my fate to see what would transpire. I started with a banana milkshake, as that happened to cost the exact amount of change I had on me, a sure sign. Then I got the first bus that came. Not so much of a sign this one, as it took an hour, went the wrong way and made me half an hour late. And then I was at the wedding. Scared witless. Man, they are some scary place to be. I don’t know what to do, what to say, I’m usually popping around doing magic at them, so to be a punter… well I felt like a fraud you know. Couldn’t I be doing some card tricks, and ignoring my deep seated fear of commitment? Are you married, someone asks me. Do I look unhappy? I reply. He doesn't laugh. He says, what's wrong with being married? Nothing, I say, I'm just mindbendingly terrified of it. What else are you scared of? he says. Not being married, I reply.

Route of all Evil

There is a bus that follows me wherever I go; the RV1, I see him, peering around corners, edging out of traffic, eyeing me, spying me, I can’t get away. At the beginning I didn’t think twice, I liked it in fact, what a useful bus, I thought, turning up at all these places I happen to be, Waterloo, Covent Garden, the Strand, London Bridge, Tower Bridge; you do get around! But then, it started to get sinister, I’d be in Camberwell, Peckham, Lewisham and out of the corner I’d see one slip across a side street. Sure, he had his ‘not in service’ lights on, but I knew why he was there and so did he. Now I can’t away from him, I see him wherever I go, I feel his headlights on my back, and the 436 makes me all jumpy.

All you say is wrong

There are so many little phrases we use without really thinking about what they mean: How’s it hanging? What’s up? Marry Me! All these throwaway lines we dispose of without thought. My favourite? 'Man, I gotta get my shit together.' Imagine if someone actually did get their shit together. If they spent a week gathering it and arranging it in a little pile. Hey guys! Come look at my shit! I got it together!! Dude... figure of speech dude, Figure of Speech!

we talk too late

you wanna part of this? he said, offering me the joint.
i'm sleepy enough as it is, i replied.
then i'll get stoned alone, he droned, and took a courageous toke.
i grow it, the regular stuff's too strong for me.
he sucked in the smoke and i drank my beer.
you write?
no, i lied.
that's what i do, that's why i'm here, i've been bouncing around some places, about getting my stuff on. i got an outfit now, for my stuff, they're good guys, we just need a punkrapper.
a what?
a punk rapper. to punkrap.
- nothing happens -
he talks (this is all him talking until i butt in):
yeh, i just got back from stoke on trent
they had a fire
i love a good fire
i'm trying to get-
they had a fire
i've just got back from stoke on trent-
you mentioned that, i butt in.
oh. i got a new analyst, luke rhinehart.
the guy who wrote the dice man?
yeh.
he's an analyst?
yeh.
he's your analyst?
yeh.
you think that's a good idea?

a boy falling from the sky

Surrounded by burly, sweated, seldom-feted thugs of obesity, I queue for burgers. The football has just finished and fights break out even though they're all on the same side. Drunks jostle for position, scrambling for offcuts of processed meats, bellowing obscenities at each other, snorting and scraping the ground, all for the no-show of suitable suitors. Overweight and overwaited plump, pink men, dropouts from the university of life, clown and cackle at each other, cocksure they're the life and soul of the party, but if they sent out invites, I certainly failed to rsvp. I get to the front, and whisper my requests to my counter self, he leans in to hear me, and just for a moment, in that fleeting intimacy, it is like dealing with humanity. I'm short of change by five pence so I'm forced to pull a note from an ever depleting stack. Ever since I've stopped carrying five pence pieces, I've been consistently short. Of change I mean. The lettuce in my burger looks like it's from the afterlife, the tomatos are warding off all evil, and the whole thing tastes satisfyingly bland. But this late in the day, maybe taste would overwhelm me; my life is made up of useless gestures and this is just one more.

The Lighting on the Wall

I'm at a gallery opening, hot damn yeh! that is the calibre of my social engagements these days, private viewings of public paintings in which we swill wine and perfect ways to say 'hmm'. But I'm nervous. It's not the first one I've been to, that's not it, it's just that I swore myself off them for a while, and I don't like to disregard my own advice. I got so down in the dumps the last time, it took me a week to get over the sight of an artist loitering around eighteen months of work pleadingly longing for someone, anyone, to buy just one of the goddamn things, so he could at least afford a shower and a change of clothes. But this show was different. This show I was invited to. Personally. Albeit it through a group email. I looked at her website, I looked at her work, I loved it, I was free that night, what was stopping me? The only thing was I couldn't quite remember where I knew her from, I've done a few gigs for painters recently, so I emailed to ask. She replied as follows, (and I quote, because I am so proud), We haven't met but as is the wonderful way of the web I just ended up on your site one day, giggled a lot at your blog and was most intrigued by your magic skills so thought I'd invite you along to the show. - !!! - I fell off my chair with excitement. Then I got back on it, and reread the email, and fell off my chair again just for the hell of it. And here I am! In my best jeans, shoes, jacket and top, swaying slightly in the breeze, hair freshly washed, sunglasses swept back, mingling. Mingle mingle mingle. I have banned myself from doing magic though, don't want to crash her party and all that, so I'm just walking around looking at paintings. And mingling. And I'm beginning to feel slightly misplaced. Lots of paintings have been bought so she looks all very relaxed and laid back, and I am starting to feel a little conspicous. Was this a weird thing to do? Maybe I should have brought some magic. I'd feel less nervous right now. Uh oh. There doesn't seem to be anyone to small talk with, they're all talking. I think the gallery owner is looking at me? He is! Damn, busted. That's the problem with living outside the box, most people still think in squares.

Tuppence a Brag

The Pigeon Man strides through Trafalgar Square, his luminous yellow jacket warding away the tourists of evil, his baseball cap pulled down low, like a duck scowling. He's gonna kick some furry feathered ass today and anyone who gets in his way is gonna regret it. He scatters and shoos the pooing, cooing flying rodents, they flap and clatter into the air, rearranging themselves alphabetically, and settle back down in indifference. He snatches chunks of bread and handfuls of chips from rosy-glowed freshly-mowed children barely the height of his knee, they burst into tears and he scolds them for their innocence. He struts around, chest puffed out, arms waving, defending his concrete garden for all he's worth. What kind of crazy place is this where a man earns his crust refusing birds theirs? How does this guy live with himself? Does he go to the pub and tell long, drawn out, boring pigeony stories? 'You should have seen the size of this one! As big as a house if it wasn't a day...' What does he put on his CV? Pigeon Repellant? Urban Nuisance Relocatement Officer? Shit Stirrer? Or does he just go home, put his feet up, flick on the football and pretend everything is Ok?

in passing [part1]

Standing in doorways doesn't lead to much, unless you happened to be standing where I happened to be standing, with nothing but time to kill and no one to kill it with. I was giving the rain the cold shoulder, the rain that fell in grey sheets around me, that had already made my flimsy shirt see-through, the shirt I'd left the house that morning in, in nothing but that shirt. Maybe I just got lucky, but luck or not, she came to me and I wasn't about to let that go.

'Would you hold this for me please,' she said, joining me in a space that barely fit one. She passed a small paperback book to me, a novel, french, from the cover it seemed to be about tall buildings and city smoke, as bleak as the grey stone around us. I took it without question, and she began buttoning her coat up. We waited there, the both of us sheltering from the rain, now being whipped around us and tucking itself into our corner. As she pulled her collar up the water trickled from her hair, droplets running down strands and falling to the ground in worship of her.

'You want this back sometime?' I asked.
'No,' she said and looked at me as if I were dead.

She left soon after and as I watched her walk away I caught the handle of an umbrella sticking out of her pocket. The rain pounded her, but she barely quickened her step, she just bore it like a flower in the summer drout, taking a beating so the rest of the garden could start drinking again.

A while after she'd turned the corner, but long before she'd left my mind, the rain eased off and I crossed the park in search of a café. I ordered a coffee and a beer and pointed to a couple of things on the menu. I looked over the book, but after scanning through, picking out a scatter of words I recognised, I gave up and pulled out my sketchbook. Halfway through a pencilled etching of the waitress smoking, I looked up for no reason and saw her photo on the television.

In muted silence I watched a body covered by a sheet, covered by flashing lights and neon darkness, covered by thirteen different stations and flaring, raping cameras. I read the rolling captions, the details of locations and suspects and motives and witnesses. And I saw her face, the face that I had shared shelter with, that I had felt the warm breath on my cheek from, I saw that face pronounced dead at the scene. I saw all this on the news report, and then I saw that the news report was from the night before.

head of flowers (untitled)

with twists of shade and sheltered sight
i sink incarnate through muted light
my sleep deprived my peace denied
i lie in hope of grace applied

Excuse me

Whenever people find out I'm a magician, and though I try to conceal it, it happens a lot, they tend to ask for a trick. And who can blame them? I, however, refuse. Here's why: A couple of years ago, at a very trendy party in Clapham, surrounded by champagne, cigars and beautiful women, I was having the time of my life. I had come with a friend, who invited me at the last minute. Now this wasn't just any fancy party right here, this was a themed party of seventies persuasion, and I wadn't lookin' too seventies (apart from my Abba hair that is...) 'Don't worry,' my friend swayed, 'just bring your cards, and they'll love you!' Good idea, how could they not? So there I was, charming the underwear of all and sundry, performing to a group of salivating onlookers, in awe as I pulled cards from wallets, coins from ears, cheese from pineapple! And then... I look across the room, to where the party has most definitely not got started, and across the room is a guy making balloon animals. Giraffes, horses, badgers, oh he's going for it baby! Balloons spill out of pockets, he turns redder and redder with each inflation, dark patches forming under his armpits from all the twisting. Who is that clown? I ask. Oh, that's Simon from Accounts, comes the reply, he's kinda dull. The girl chips in, that's his way of chatting up the girls, the animals; it's his thing. His thing? He has a thing? Very slowly I looked down to my hands. I have a thing!! Oh man! A deck of 52 social crutches lay splayed in my fingers, I undeniably have a thing! I take my thing to parties! And get it out when I didn't have anything else to do!! I've become SIMON!!!! I could work in ACCOUNTS!!! I looked up and people stared at me, expectantly, impatiently, waiting for the card trick monkey to do his next little dance. I walked into the kitchen. I opened the bin. I threw my cards away. And that's why this monkey dances no longer.

It doesn't ad up

There is a sign for a block of new flats around the corner that reads, if you lived here, you'd be home by now! That's a pretty short-sighted reason for buying a house. Especially if you work in Plymouth.

Side-Splitting

Help! I can't laugh. Seriously! I'm a prisoner of my own funny bone. When I giggle I get a pain so bad down my right side I see stars and my vision doubles. This is no laughing matter, I've nearly fainted twice. Very not funny. It's changing who I am, my rhythm, my outlook, me! I have to frown now, no more laughing and joking johnny, austerity is held like a gun to my head. No more Seinfeld, no more Marx Brothers, I watch nothing but Beaches and Terms of Endearment. I have to preface every conversation with a strict instructions on quips, retorts or smart assing of any kind. And this life without laughter is having quite an impact on who I am. In just a few short weeks, I've changed! I have issues, I discuss them neverendingly over carrots and humous, I listen to Trisha and think sometimes she has a good point, I watch the Wright Stuff and consider phoning in. Oh man, I don't like myself anymore, all this time alone has made me realise I'm not happy. I was happy until I realised I shouldn't be. And now I'm getting swallowed by this melancholy of the middling, and I feel pretty lonely.