Cold Feet

I've got a sock problem. The numbers just don't add up. Way too many foot warmers, none of which are pairs. I hold them up side by side, at various angles and in various lights, they look identical, but when I put them on there are very slight, very subtle, almost imperceptible differences: one is too soft, the other too long; one is too baggy, the other too scratchy; one has stitching, the other a pattern. And I spend the whole day walking around feeling all unbalanced. It's very odd.

Childhood

When I was young my parents bought me a cat, a cat called fluffy. Fluffy and I were like brothers; he used to flush my head down the toilet, and I used to wet his bed. We loved each other really though, every summer I used to play football with him on the lawn. Until I kicked him over the fence. He would have been ok, but the neighbours had a dog; called Curiousity. Just like that my world was torn apart. And so was fluffy. My parents tried to make it up to me, they bought me a rabbit instead, but curiousity got the better of that too. I was inconsolable, until one day, just before Christmas, when snow was in the air and pies were in the oven, my parents bought me a very special present. And now I know that no matter what happens, fluffy's up there, every night, watching over me. Because they stuffed him and hung him from the light.

Beholder

Beauty is blameless, as is the lack of it, at the roll of a dice we are bestowed with our beauty or with the lack of it. Any merit we claim or project on a person, as a reflection of this beauty, is as invalid as that to which we give those born into riches. Control is beyond us, acceptance the only way forward; swagger is unseemly and dismay a chasing of the wind. Vanity can be acquired or shed; pouts, frowns, lines and mopes, all these are added by what occurs to us, and how we receive these occurances. And we know all this. Yet we praise the glamourous, the young and the beautiful, and the old man dies of shame in the corner, and the ugly find love with the ugly, all the while pining for the untrue.

Meet me here

My lady awaits, but where? Perhaps on a online dating site? I'm there! Hey, everyone's desperate these days, and compared to those women publishing their availability for all the world to see, I look positively laid back. So I'm clicking around, winking, and sending nudges, but there's a problem. These sites reduce love to consumerism, I become as picky and fussy as if I was looking for a new coat. Reject reject reject, one detail out of place and the possible future Mrs vanderPut is out of the picture. None of these women ever quite exactly match my impossible criteria; she's too tall for me, I'm too small for she. And if, somehow, one woman does manage to slip through the net of exclusion, and by some chance measures up, or, more precisely, down, all it takes is one stupid comment for me to lose all interest; such as anyone who says they 'enjoy the finer things in life'. Who doesn't? Is there someone out there with a passion for drudgery, looking for a fellow masochist to indulge their displeasure together? After five days of partner shopping and email swapping I give up. This is no way to meet someone.

A Burning Man

a burning man
smouldering at
the end of his tether

a habit going out of fashion
a fashion going out of habit

a small white timeline
that once lit, ever dwindles
crawling its way to the end

and twitching, we'll have to give up
and itching, we'll have to give in

a smoking reminder
that one day we shall all expire
whether we inhale or not

a habit at the end of its span
a burning man

- for harry -

Prude

There is a show at Earls Court this weekend called Erotica, a sale of sexuality where various contrivances are purchased in order to enhance that stale encounter between you and your loved one. Ironically the tagline of the event is 'for your imagination', which is not quite what making use of items others have thought up for you is all about is it? Surely the imaginative thing would be to do without and plow new furroughs... But of course, where is the cash in that? So here they sell enough appliances to run a kitchen, though you probably wouldn't want to eat there, and couples swan around gaping at various leather and plastic covered items, giggling and being oh so grown up about the whole thing. Sadly I can only read of these delights, for I have been working all weekend and am only aware of these festivities because of the number of red take-home bags being carried today on the underground. Two of these not-so-goody bags, these baddy-bags, belong to a quite absurdly repugnant couple, and a wave of nausea hits me as I contemplate the unthinkable. Hey, I know I shouldn't judge, and beauty is only skin-deep or whatever, but I'm shallow, and that skin is far enough for me my friend.

Past Over

Six months has past before he decides to win her back. But once the resolution is made, he acts upon it like there is no tomorrow. A slew of schemes, plans and connivances are tortured and contrived, happy coincidences are concocted to lead him past her work, her door, all in the hope of a chance meeting. How long does this go on for? For days? For weeks? No. Not for long. For then, like a knock out punch he finds it is too late. Others have stepped in. And now we find him, reeling, spinning; in a bar, dizzy and blinking. And let us become him for a moment, let us step inside that fuzzy head of his as he staggers and sways, and as we are now he, and he is now I, we see things are now over. Now truly truly over. She and he circle our me, and jab and punch with flicking punches, punches that punch heads and heads that get punches. That dizzy, dizzy head that he tries to shake clear, as flicks and punches land and knock him from his feet, and he is caused to buckle, at long motherfucking last to buckle. And as he floats and dissolves and slips apart, we leave him, we dislocate and return to our third person, our independence, to the outsider. And as we do, for one brief moment, he actually thinks it matters; for one moment, no longer than a nothing.

Pope Hope

I think the position of the Pope is often very misunderstood. And not just because he speaks Latin. Take his infallibility, for instance; now this doesn't mean he is perfect, blameless, above the weaknesses that inhabit us all. He makes bad calls and iffy choices like the rest of us. It happens. All it means is that any dogmas or doctrines that the Pope institutes on behalf of the Catholic church, are infallible, ie not wrong. Which is good to know if you happen to believe in the Catholicism. Or if you want another example, look at his teaching on condoms. The Pope is against them. Which is tough to deal with. But what about the spread of aids? we say. Well... actually, the only thing he actually endorses is total abstinance, unless you are in the traditional marriage bond. Ouch. Tough line. Now of course, you don't have to agree with this, you can think he's in error, and choose to live your life outside the bond of this abstinance. And this is not a right or wrong thing, who knows where God sits on this one, my only question would be if you choose to explore those other avenues, why hold on to the no-condom rule? The last thing the Pope is saying is, yeah! I'm the Pope, screw everything that moves! spread your seed! have a great time! but whatever you do, don’t use a condom; 'cos of all the people in the world, we want more like you.

This is no time for that

He sits there laughing, honking like a goose in the corner. I stare at him for a long while. Why is that funny? I ask. He quietens down, wiping the corner of his eyes with the back of his hand, shakes his head and sighs. I eat dry peanut shells and watch him. His restrain doesn't last, and he before long he splutters out more laughter, snorting. Right, I think and get up to leave. No, no, sit down, come on, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he is spraying crisps as he stoops and mumbles, apologising and kowtowing. Warily I take my seat. So I think I can help you, he says. Now we're getting somewhere.

Tissue

It's a helluva thing to have a scar, a helluva thing. The permanance is what hits you first, the history of your body, right there in the open, for anyone to see. One day you fall asleep, black out, pass to unconciousness, and in that unchanging while, they change you, in the flicker of an eye, the flicker of a knife, and when you wake you are marked, never to be the same again, the cut never to be undone. For as long as I am with my body I will bear this line, this frown that stretches from side to side. From now til forever will I have to bear those questions whenever I go swimming, whenever I take my top off at the beach, or get drenched in the rain and have to change my shirt. And those who know me in those intimate moments will press and prod, probing at things I don't want to remember, and asking about times I want to forget. It's a helluva thing to have a scar.

Strange Creatures

the hippreposterous sat, pondering why
a God should exist with such an odd eye
to give this poor beast not two ears but nine
with which he could hear the smallest malign
                                                                    - for maya -

This constant state of exhaustion

The pizza company is sneering at me. They recognise my number and call me by my first name. Small pizza, they assume. Medium, I correct, overeating just to appear with company. I hear my phone ring in my head every half minute. I check and recheck and still no one is calling me, no messages. I get up the next day, the sky grey, casting no light through the darkened curtains. In the silence of a still room I listen as pasta bubbles in a pan, then, suddenly too tired to eat anymore, I pour the water away and leave fresh pasta sticking to a non-stick pan. I go back to my bed fully clothed, and on that empty bed sleep empty sleep. Twelve million people in this city and not one to talk to.

Contra-perception

When I ran out of deodorant last week, and was forced down to the local costcutter with its restrictive choices, little did I realise the conspiracy I would uncover as I purchased a Lynx Touch. We shift to me, the next day, I wake, shower and spray on, I walk to rehearsals and by the time I get there I realise I smell a bit... sniffy. Day two, I wake, I shower, I spray more, and this time I write in the living room and make lunch, nothing too strenuous. But as I'm chopping lettuce, a faint smell begins to creep out from under my shirt. Sniffy. Day three, I wake, take a very long, very thorough shower, spray copiously, leave my room and... sniffy! I spray again, and I get more sniffy! This is the way the deodorant smells! Lynx Touch appears to be scented with body odour. It smells of smell! It's not a deodorant, it's a reodorant! Determined to get to the bottom of this, i make some late-night phone calls to a few well connected individuals, and discover the cause. In a bid to cut teenage pregnancy figures, the government have teamed up with Lynx to make teenage boys positively abhorrent to girls. In papers that go back to the sweaty summer of July 2006, a government source said 'the charm and sophistication of such signature scents as Africa, Marine and Pulse can be seen to directly correlate to the recent rise of teenage mothers. Since our campaign began, late last year, there has been an almost 67% reduction in the birth of babies named Brooklyn, Romeo and Chantel and Preston.'

Grind

Let us leave this place, he says, come, let us retreat. To think no more of worthwhile things. Let us sell up and sell out, we shall start another life, to become consumers and refusers, founts of wastage, parasitic, comatose blights on the earth and alchemists of new to old, good to bad. I shall get a job concerned solely with the packaging and repackaging of frozen poultry goods. You can work in a flourescently lit office, beneath polystyrene panels and a machine that chugs out black liquid into plastic cups. We shall have fights over the cutlery, live for the weekend and get drunk at the Christmas party. For the world is beyond us and we must have concern for it no longer.

Over Here

the londoner: how long have you been here?
the canadian: f i v e y e a r s...
the londoner: wow. i can hear each and every one of them.
the canadian: every endless rainy day.
the londoner: we call that summer. do you like london?
the canadian: i have a love hate relationship
the londoner: which part do you hate?
the canadian: london.
the londoner: which part do you love?
the canadian: hating london.
the londoner: so... the cloud is your silver lining?
the canadian: yes.
the londoner: oh that is bleak.