Breeze tingles taut skin,
Clothes ruffle themselves around my torso.
God is probably watching,
Enjoying his work,
As it fucks with my shit.
The birds have finished hatching,
as the cold air makes them aware that
night time is approaching and that now is not a good time
to hatch.
It’s about 8 o’clock during the first summer month
and the park is looking less than inviting now.
What were once undulating, sweaty sods of soil
have reduced to dry
gluteus masses of still green.
God’s work
God’s own work
allowed to shrivel and crumble to a
molten core, dry as a bone, arid landscape scarred
by breeze.
Windows and doors slam shut
within the space of an hour and a half,
to create a barrier ‘twixt their hovel homes
and cold, cold breeze.
If I were to consider
leaving the house I would ensure
that I was wearing an appropriate coat or jacket
to create barrier between my taut skin
and their cold, cold breeze.
Maybe I am wrong about
the immoderate temperatures
that proliferate outside between 8 and half 9.
Maybe these are the winds
and breezes that bring the earth
back to a manageable level of activity,
to allow the birds and the eggs
to rest once more,
and maybe God IS watching his work as it fucks with my shit.
All of our shit.
ALL.
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Zane Lowe meets The Killers
A little exposition for those that don't know me that well. I don't really like The Killers. They have a few okay songs, that one about bright sides, and that Jenny Was A Race Car Driver one, but apart from these most of their stuff is pretty average.
Why then was I treated to what felt like ten but was more like two hours of radio fellatio? Out of some sado-masochistic fetish for stuffing my fat ears with dribble-toss? Because, when cooking, occasional songs you find okay lift you out of the misery of work-masquerading-as-food perhaps?
No, none of that, but merely because Zane Lowe reminded me terribly of something I had forgotten in the interim since my days chewing the grimy cud in ugly metal boxes that pipe Radio 1 through nasty speakers older than metal itself. The sheer idolatorification (not a real word i know; read 'the act of idolising') of tepid bands by Gumbyesque. mewling fuckwits such as Zane Lowe and, my personal choice for the molten shit-spittle, Jo 'Jizztits' Wiley.
These incompetent, snivelling abortions of taste sniff and gnaw the most intimate areas of any muso twat that their cavernous-boweled lords and masters present to them, coveting the arrival of these bell-ends as if it was the Second Coming.
Such amazing reportage was heard expunging forth from Zane's dewy cakehole, that I felt inclined to commit at least the gist of a little of his bileous spewings to memory.
'When you write songs, do you always try to make them better than the last ones?'
What do you expect them to fucking say? 'No Zane, actually, on this album, we definitely made an effort to lessen the song-writing quality of the songs, and focus more on just excreting fluids into cups and sharing the cups with children.'
'When you write an album do you find it important to go for a new sound each time?'
Again, same as above. I mean, the guy is paid large sums of money to essentially provide an intimate masseuse service live on public radio. That we pay for no less. I couldn't give a flying fuck at a rolling donut if they think their new album is the best, there's no need, they might think it's worse than the memory of Belsen but they aren't going to say that on national radio are they?
Then Zane whispered (in the hushed, seductive tones of Isabella Rossilini in Blue Velvet, or maybe that's just what it felt like) some factually inaccurate foreplay-banter about the guitarist having God like fingers and the intro to Mr Brightside being 'impossibly complex' and how it made him feel like he was standing on Mount Olympus beside Zeus, presumably pissing into a strong breeze and slowly twisting his own nipples.
Absolute poppycock the lot of it. Come next week, Zane will be lying prone, mouth agape, awaiting the next life-affirming, steaming gospel lunch of some Doherty or Kate Nash of fucking Engelbert fucking Humperdinck-a-like, and he'll once again proclaim that 'That gig at (insert generic London under-18's spunkpit venue) was probably the best gig I've seen all year, the energy in the crowd, they were just jumping about all over the place it was so intense,' as if he were a fourteen year old who has only just discovered that pints of shandy and loud music make people come out of their now day-glow, peak capped, belt-buckled shells, smiling as if half the world wasn't dying of situations so terrible it would make their off-kilter fringes literally fall off into their warm pints of £6 Stella with terror.
I respect a lot of the music Zane Lowe plays on his show, and sometimes he almost proves himself to be one of the more listenable primetime DJ's, but this makes it all the sadder when he debases himself to ingesting the bitter, reproductory effluvium of lacklustre, overproduced kiddie-bands at the behest of any of the multitude of fucktard BBC schedulers.
The shit-trickle keeps flowing, and will continue to do so forever, forming a slowly rising sea of arse-eggs, solely for the supping pleasure of a never ending stream of B-List cocksniffers on 'I Love the 00's (or Noughties if you're a tabloid gossip columnist or a prick,) no doubt due to air in 2010, a time when instead of television sets we will probably have reverted to public speakers as we all realise that none of us have had any money for years and the past decade has actually been a gigantic game of Monopoly, only with money made of air and coughing.
Why then was I treated to what felt like ten but was more like two hours of radio fellatio? Out of some sado-masochistic fetish for stuffing my fat ears with dribble-toss? Because, when cooking, occasional songs you find okay lift you out of the misery of work-masquerading-as-food perhaps?
No, none of that, but merely because Zane Lowe reminded me terribly of something I had forgotten in the interim since my days chewing the grimy cud in ugly metal boxes that pipe Radio 1 through nasty speakers older than metal itself. The sheer idolatorification (not a real word i know; read 'the act of idolising') of tepid bands by Gumbyesque. mewling fuckwits such as Zane Lowe and, my personal choice for the molten shit-spittle, Jo 'Jizztits' Wiley.
These incompetent, snivelling abortions of taste sniff and gnaw the most intimate areas of any muso twat that their cavernous-boweled lords and masters present to them, coveting the arrival of these bell-ends as if it was the Second Coming.
Such amazing reportage was heard expunging forth from Zane's dewy cakehole, that I felt inclined to commit at least the gist of a little of his bileous spewings to memory.
'When you write songs, do you always try to make them better than the last ones?'
What do you expect them to fucking say? 'No Zane, actually, on this album, we definitely made an effort to lessen the song-writing quality of the songs, and focus more on just excreting fluids into cups and sharing the cups with children.'
'When you write an album do you find it important to go for a new sound each time?'
Again, same as above. I mean, the guy is paid large sums of money to essentially provide an intimate masseuse service live on public radio. That we pay for no less. I couldn't give a flying fuck at a rolling donut if they think their new album is the best, there's no need, they might think it's worse than the memory of Belsen but they aren't going to say that on national radio are they?
Then Zane whispered (in the hushed, seductive tones of Isabella Rossilini in Blue Velvet, or maybe that's just what it felt like) some factually inaccurate foreplay-banter about the guitarist having God like fingers and the intro to Mr Brightside being 'impossibly complex' and how it made him feel like he was standing on Mount Olympus beside Zeus, presumably pissing into a strong breeze and slowly twisting his own nipples.
Absolute poppycock the lot of it. Come next week, Zane will be lying prone, mouth agape, awaiting the next life-affirming, steaming gospel lunch of some Doherty or Kate Nash of fucking Engelbert fucking Humperdinck-a-like, and he'll once again proclaim that 'That gig at (insert generic London under-18's spunkpit venue) was probably the best gig I've seen all year, the energy in the crowd, they were just jumping about all over the place it was so intense,' as if he were a fourteen year old who has only just discovered that pints of shandy and loud music make people come out of their now day-glow, peak capped, belt-buckled shells, smiling as if half the world wasn't dying of situations so terrible it would make their off-kilter fringes literally fall off into their warm pints of £6 Stella with terror.
I respect a lot of the music Zane Lowe plays on his show, and sometimes he almost proves himself to be one of the more listenable primetime DJ's, but this makes it all the sadder when he debases himself to ingesting the bitter, reproductory effluvium of lacklustre, overproduced kiddie-bands at the behest of any of the multitude of fucktard BBC schedulers.
The shit-trickle keeps flowing, and will continue to do so forever, forming a slowly rising sea of arse-eggs, solely for the supping pleasure of a never ending stream of B-List cocksniffers on 'I Love the 00's (or Noughties if you're a tabloid gossip columnist or a prick,) no doubt due to air in 2010, a time when instead of television sets we will probably have reverted to public speakers as we all realise that none of us have had any money for years and the past decade has actually been a gigantic game of Monopoly, only with money made of air and coughing.
Sir Leopard
Sir Leopard surveys the hillside break,
At rest and ease after a dutiful trek,
Providing sustenance for a growing brood,
Provides him, as well, with a loaded due.
That which he chose leads to predictable woes,
But his honour and guard regularly trains his thought closed.
His sense of unease increases,
Sir Leopard rises and his resting ceases,
In the distance he catches in his sight,
A cache of boar circling the piste.
He considers his tactics and his duty to the taxes,
Of those who’d suffer if his provision relaxes,
But as soon as eyes of his young and his wife,
Discolour his mind and provide him with strife,
His dominance and instinct well up in his muscles,
And brings his youthful aggression ,the fights and the tussles.
Sir Leopard, in earnest, his body extends,
And his claws square up with where he intends,
To the east. The beasts that charge the beaten track,
Sense the air and catch the promise,
Of another beasts blood on this arid orange,
And two foes enraged become an outrage of yellow and black.
Sir Leopard takes the heeds as one,
Presented by his life, neither outdone.
These heeds are the instincts,
The sense memory linguistics,
And the boar set upon him as a united group,
Defeating Sir Leopard and therefore his troop,
Who will suffer for days
But at some point arrange,
A new figure improved,
In both wisdom and mood.
Bonds ‘twixt the living transcend all the gaps,
That retaliation and thirst for attack,
Plummet within, undrawn by the powers,
Unaided by the might of the draw of content hours.
At rest and ease after a dutiful trek,
Providing sustenance for a growing brood,
Provides him, as well, with a loaded due.
That which he chose leads to predictable woes,
But his honour and guard regularly trains his thought closed.
His sense of unease increases,
Sir Leopard rises and his resting ceases,
In the distance he catches in his sight,
A cache of boar circling the piste.
He considers his tactics and his duty to the taxes,
Of those who’d suffer if his provision relaxes,
But as soon as eyes of his young and his wife,
Discolour his mind and provide him with strife,
His dominance and instinct well up in his muscles,
And brings his youthful aggression ,the fights and the tussles.
Sir Leopard, in earnest, his body extends,
And his claws square up with where he intends,
To the east. The beasts that charge the beaten track,
Sense the air and catch the promise,
Of another beasts blood on this arid orange,
And two foes enraged become an outrage of yellow and black.
Sir Leopard takes the heeds as one,
Presented by his life, neither outdone.
These heeds are the instincts,
The sense memory linguistics,
And the boar set upon him as a united group,
Defeating Sir Leopard and therefore his troop,
Who will suffer for days
But at some point arrange,
A new figure improved,
In both wisdom and mood.
Bonds ‘twixt the living transcend all the gaps,
That retaliation and thirst for attack,
Plummet within, undrawn by the powers,
Unaided by the might of the draw of content hours.
Saturday, 22 August 2009
Walter Tindale's shopping list
Custodial Junctures.
Okay. Several things. A. Stop fucking about.
B. Do more of A. and stop fucking about.
There is no C.
Right.
Sit up.
Look at hands; are hands clean?
A: No
B: Yes
If A, proceed to 3
If B, proceed to &
2 Where am I?
3 Obtain water/ liquid and wipeables.
4 Enjoy fresh sensations
5 Strangle
Sub-par juncture;
& Applaud
^ Look up and a little to the right
! Shout help and look injured
The Graceful Return;
6 Have guns.
7 Obtain memos from Captain.
This is Captain, hi there, I do hope you're enjoying your time as part of the Ship-Ahoy Sailors. We have hit land... yes, a mass of land. It looks friendly, mainly trees. No idea where in the world we are, our cartographer is sub par.
Sub-par Juncture 2;
* Knobkerry/Baton
) Open hatchback. Hatchet back
@ Gloat
Back Again;
8 Top hat and tails in tow, let's away to the dinghy, and set port-starboard for Ahoy-O-Sphere, the mysterious 'sea scape' of pure gaseous Atlantic stuff. Many have died. We don't care.
9 Return to University and study acoustic potentiometer modulation in bicubit anthropomorphs.
10 Intravenous hit of exciting mischeviousness.
Such was the shopping list in Walter Tindale's back pocket. A happy man, though not content. Wretched, coy, marvellous.
Okay. Several things. A. Stop fucking about.
B. Do more of A. and stop fucking about.
There is no C.
Right.
Sit up.
Look at hands; are hands clean?
A: No
B: Yes
If A, proceed to 3
If B, proceed to &
2 Where am I?
3 Obtain water/ liquid and wipeables.
4 Enjoy fresh sensations
5 Strangle
Sub-par juncture;
& Applaud
^ Look up and a little to the right
! Shout help and look injured
The Graceful Return;
6 Have guns.
7 Obtain memos from Captain.
This is Captain, hi there, I do hope you're enjoying your time as part of the Ship-Ahoy Sailors. We have hit land... yes, a mass of land. It looks friendly, mainly trees. No idea where in the world we are, our cartographer is sub par.
Sub-par Juncture 2;
* Knobkerry/Baton
) Open hatchback. Hatchet back
@ Gloat
Back Again;
8 Top hat and tails in tow, let's away to the dinghy, and set port-starboard for Ahoy-O-Sphere, the mysterious 'sea scape' of pure gaseous Atlantic stuff. Many have died. We don't care.
9 Return to University and study acoustic potentiometer modulation in bicubit anthropomorphs.
10 Intravenous hit of exciting mischeviousness.
Such was the shopping list in Walter Tindale's back pocket. A happy man, though not content. Wretched, coy, marvellous.
Bright on
The decision to flee came fast. Small grouped around pub table. I was freshly filled with catering-quality burger and cheap cider. I was fairly content, yet, some part of my soul had resigned itself to an intermminable, uninspired fortnight, slowly marching towards 'fate.'
Still clinging with white-blue fingers to regrets recently past, my mind heard tell of thoughts of travels to the beach. At the very mention I jumped (metaphorically) to grand, beautiul conclusions.
Within three hours we were cramped into two small vehicles, trundling at a frankly astonishing pace towards the blue expanse.
We had chosen Brighton as our destination. A mutual friend of all of ours had moved there very recently, and we needed to make sure he was okay, and that he wasn't enjoying a life we were all sadly missing out on. The journey began fairly late in the day, and as the car's air filters were filled with the tingly, briny fresh oceanic air my heart expanded and swelled, feasting on the pure tidal air.
We placed the cars in town and debated our next moves. It was too late to find a camp site and the parking boasted all-night possibilities.
Some were eager to set up camp. I, like the drivers, were eager merely for strong drink. We headed to the bar our friend had recently begun work at, hoping to find him ensconced in a bright, vibrant, beautiful new scene, amazing, wonderful people clinging on to his every word and fabric as he related harsh, embittered tales of Northampton, the lost land, neither as 'likely' and London or as nasty as the North, Middle England's triumph over solid character profiling.
He sat, keeping the interest of two beautiful, young ladies at the bar. Other than these two the place was empty. Beautiful, open to the street, wooden benches, leather chairs, shelves full of fine licquor. The bar fairly smelt of sea. The rapturous moment of reunion was beautiful. Then drinks occured. Many in our party had nothing to contribute to the bar tab, I however, was more than appropriately monied, so I proceeded to become admirably worse for wear.
Three drinks in thirty minutes and several had accidentally indulged in all manner of things. No sooner had we done this than people began expressing discontent at our lack of sleeping arrangements. This briefly registered as a factor but I soon agreed with Scott that there was a seemingly limitless expanse of coastline, no detectable wind and a forecast of the most beautiful weather the country has seen all year due as of tomorrow morning.
We gathered items to see the midnight spectacle of Brighton's skeletal, ominous West Pier. As we sat, uniformly facing the vast, black, roaring entity as it lapped around the roots of this living, breathing monument to the destroyed dreams of a time long since past, the structure beckoned me.
'Here I am, just over here, the water's lovely, come and see me, climb me.'
But I was fortunately still together enough to resist the temptation to climb the no doubt fatal former pier.
But the mind does wander.
'Everybody seems to want to go to Mark's house and stay there until the morning.' I explained to Scott.
'But we're on the beach.'
'I know, but they want to go inside.'
'We could have done that at home.'
'I know... I don't think we should do it here.'
'Definitely not.'
I checked my bag. Many, many beers, a coat, a blanket, food, medicine, treats, paper, pen, cigarettes...
'I think we should see what's over there,' I suggested, pointing vaguely to the shore curving out to the left of the pier, 'I bet whatever's over there is more interesting than what's here.'
We convinced the rest of our group that it what a good idea leaving two alcohol and substance fuelled humans to explore the barrier between land and sea with startling efficacy and bade them a fond farewell, promising we shall switch phones on and be contactable at daybreak. I hoped this wouldn't be necessary, but anything could happen between later and now so I was prepared for all eventualities.
As we walked the millions of unwieldy, uncomfortable, pitch black pebbles hindered our progress. We crossed two giant concrete walls 9that later, to our delight, discovered were named 'groynes,') and a few hundred yards of awkward beach before deciding to rest for a little while. It was time to consider what lay ahead.
Slow progress was made but much discussion was had. The love for theatre, performance, entertainment reared it's ugly head and we disputed the nature of the purpose of living to entertain, inform and offend. 'Til the sun rose from behind the flats, houses and hotels of Brighton front we made little progress across land, but gigantic leaps in understanding the world and what made it laugh and think.
As daylight crept across the ground, illuminating the world around us, we became aware of civillians using this sombre time of day to prepare themselves in the ocean.
We had discussed the obtaining of presents for those close to us back home. We had decided on presents that our friends would enjoy. We had also decided that not contacting our travelling partners for a few days would be far more interestng than just going home.
We continued our quest to see what was 'over there' until we happened across two young girls frolicking in the brisk morning waves.
The presents would be as follows:
Achieve something that would make Cid applaud.
Get Cid a wave.
Find Garrett either a frog or a crab.
Get a present for Thompson.
Get a wave from the sea and wave at Cid.
Before overfilling our task list it became clear these would require focusing on first. There was no suitable shore for collecting wildlife for miles yet, the vast reach of Brighton's promenades and walkways had shone right to the horizon all night, that would be a gift to obtain during days five to ten.
The bottle we planned to catch a wave in still had the vital remains of the non-alcoholic beverage within, so that could wait 'til later.
Thompson. This man needed a present more than most. But how? What would be fitting?
Exhausted from all these kind thoughts we settled back into making sure we were as unsober as possible. This took very little time, and we soon decided it was a good idea to stay here for a while.
'I reckon, we should just say to hell with it and find ourselves some means of employment whilst we figure out how to get back home.' I had already begun to worry how we'd make it home, and craved the comfort of earnings.
'But we look like shit, how can we get jobs looking like this?' Scott's question was reasonable. I wouldn't have employed me.
Flicking through the mucky pages of my memory I recalled, as we parked, seeing two gentlemen stood outside the back door of a casino it tuxedoes. Very nice tuxedoes come to think of it.
'Maybe we could borrow their tuxedoes,' I ventured.
'They won't be working again 'til tonight. We have a lot of presents to get remember.'
'Well, when night comes round we'll just borrow their tuxedoes. Use today to arrange an interview for tomorrow.'
'They won't give us suits.'
'God damn it,' I shouted, 'But we need this work. Otherwise how're we going to get Thompson his present.'
Simultaneously we eyed each other, sharing the greatest idea we've ever had.
'GUNS? GUNS? DO YOU HAVE, OR KNOW WHERE TO GET GUNS?' we shouted in unison at the frolicking water-girls. 'GUNS? IT'S VERY IMPORTANT.'
Abject terror smothered both of them. One fell backwards into the surf and curled up foetally, floating briefly on top of the lapping waves. The other stood, alarmed by the frankness of our inquiry. As we got louder and closer they seemed less likely to provide help.
We never actually reached them. One evaded us and returned to shore, the other fled into the rolling arms of the Channel. I am almost one hundred percent certain I saw her shape come to shore some half an hour later but I couldn't be sure, as I didn't want to approach too closely for fear of reprisal.
We returned to shore and reconsidered our tactics. We drew up a series of plans, each working into the other dependent on the outcome of the individually numbered steps. The plan overall consisted of the following steps:
Find guns.
Steal tuxedoes.
Get job interviews.
Save up.
Get healthy.
Read more.
Buy Thompson a present.
Make Cid applaud.
This seemed fairly rational, however we devised a number of routes to this conclusion. Obtaining guns through Brighton's criminal underclass was out of the question, we were in no position to barter for offensive weapons, and we had no money.
'Do coastguards carry guns?'
'Maybe on their boats. How do we find out?'
It was really the only reasonable option. When you need a lifeguard you need an accident.
'Hi there, lovely morning.'
The lady responded on Spanish, and Scott and I were none the wiser.
'I said, lovely morning isn't it?' I tried again, hoping she'd make this easier for all involved.
'Yes, thank you, good holiday!' So her English was less than perfect. This didn't matter.
Plan A, Step 1: Drown Person.
Her ankles kicked about an awful lot, splashing around, breaking free momentarily from my grip and then getting caught again in the freezing splashes of sea. Scott's headlock had been ineffectual. Despite the struggling however we were soon the proud owners of a poor, drowned tourist. The plan had so far worked. Wracked with guilt, Scott and I were forced to obtain the assistance of a passing lifeguard. Preparation would have entailed us having at least two flares. No such luck.
Three hours floating in the cold, vacant water before assistance came. As we were dragged from the current a dumbfounded coast guard offered sympathy for our discovery of the poor Spanish lady. We were swathed in blankets and told we'd be home soon. I saw no guns near him, but I saw a tazer strapped to his left leg.
Obtaining the tazer was more troublesome. The man was tall, fit, strong as an ox, and it took all of twenty minutes to make him sink back to the sea floor.
An issue had arisen. We were now in possesion of; Spanish corpse, Sea tazer, Coast Guard boat, vital bag of supplies and heavy, heavy hearts. Between us we surmised that the security guards in tuxedoes that will go out the back for a cigarette tonight would most likely withstand the bite of mere tazers, and unpicking the spines from their skin would potentially ruin the finish of the tuxedoes they were wearing. Then we'd look woefully less than dapper at our interviews. A new plan was drafted:
Step 4: Use tazer to interrogate police officer as to whereabouts of guns.
Step 5: Get tuxedoes.
I was sure that by this late juncture any passing officer of the law would be willing to grant us an audience, but I knew it would put us at a disadvantage. We needed a more innocuous opening gambit.
If cargo ships aren't born from lightning striking the sea's surface then they should be, and we've all been wasting our time here.
'Let's sail to unprotected waters and get guns from pirates. We might even see some lightning and cargo ships being born.'
Within minutes we had set sail for unprotected waters. This was a long way away, we knew that much. We weren't 100% sure which way they were, or whether we'd make it (we were down to twelve beers left, dire straits.) The sea was choppy and the beaches were beginning to fill. As far as we knew no one was after us yet, but we were both very confident it wasn't safe to return to the casino where we could get the tuxedoes from 'til night fell.
'Over there' had a large hill behind it, carving a promising obelisk to journey to. We set a course and set sail in our sail-less vessel. The sun by now has fully emerged and was slinging the most skin tingling rays I'd felt since my travels in Equatorial Africa.
The hill grew slowly larger, and as we trudged towards it a sense, inexplicable yet impossible to ignore, that upon the hill sat a restaurant offering buffet lunch. By my approximations the sun was four to five hours from high noon. More than ample time.
A lack of seafaring skills meant the shorebound tides outfoxed my navigational skills. We collided with the mostly submerged concrete groyne just in time to greet the first wave of sun-hungry visitors. There was some commotion, and a fisherman planted deep within the surf suffered terribly as the speeding craft leapt into the air, right through his fishing rods, truss, boxes of equipment and semi-naked countenance. The Spanish corpse flew skyward and landed with a thud some four hundred yards from the shore in a perfect swallow dive.
Regaining consciousness, the back of my body pocked with pebbles, I saw before me a balding native gesticulating wildly. I was, somewhat miraculously, still clinging to the all-important satchel of supplies and Scott regained his consciousness almost simultaneously.
Running was difficult. Soaked to the skin and clutching heavy bag and clothes, the morning trade glared at us like beasts destroying the sombre calm of the beautiful morning atmosphere. But I still had the tazer. We would have jobs by sun-up tomorrow.
We found an old gentleman in a cream suit and stetson. He was aged beyond count, ruddied by a life of salty gales and hard graft. We had brunch, he enjoyed his especially, and we inquired about several of our tasks. He didn't know the whereabouts of any guns, but told us of a police station just a couple of miles 'over there' which gave us hope.
Back on the beach. Calm. At peace. Mind flitting at set intervals between complete focus on the impossibility of the sea, and the fearful facts that lie on land. The opportunities. To live on the sea for a month, just you and the sea. Safe. Apart from everything. No consideration but the size of the waves, the heat of the sun and the next meal. Imagine being that free.
Within seconds of entering the police station the flaws of our plans became paramount. Fleeing the scene was a lengthy process, and one that I'm still unsure of whether the police knew they were involved or not. There were a lot of them, but none of them looked like they knew what they were doing. At rest on the beach some minutes later, it was decided we needed to make contact. An hour passed and all plans were described in detail in letters to Cid and Kitty. Now all we needed was a post office.
Brighton Post Offices are very friendly places and the letters disappeared from our grips with the grace and ease of a butterfly. Thank you Brighton and Hove Post Office.
Were we in Brighton or Hove? I thought we had made it to Hove by this point, which made me feel satisfied that the day had not been in vein. We still, however needed guns, and Hove was looking as gun-free as Brighton. Despite some placards subtly describing our plight being read by several what looked like natives, no guns came our way. It was time to call in the troops.
Apparently none of our friends could get any guns, so we decided not to talk to them again and focus on the task in hand.
We couldn't believe our eyes. Laying there on the beach, was a big, shiny gun.
Getting the tuxedoes the following evening was easy. So easy that, using the gun as well, we secured a shift as security guards for some underground poker tournament that apparently wasn't happening at all.
By day break the next day we had money, tuxedoes, guns and breakfast.
Thompson was purchased a really big drum made by a small man on the beach. It was lovely and smelt of kelp.
I still want to go into unprotected waters.
THE END
Still clinging with white-blue fingers to regrets recently past, my mind heard tell of thoughts of travels to the beach. At the very mention I jumped (metaphorically) to grand, beautiul conclusions.
Within three hours we were cramped into two small vehicles, trundling at a frankly astonishing pace towards the blue expanse.
We had chosen Brighton as our destination. A mutual friend of all of ours had moved there very recently, and we needed to make sure he was okay, and that he wasn't enjoying a life we were all sadly missing out on. The journey began fairly late in the day, and as the car's air filters were filled with the tingly, briny fresh oceanic air my heart expanded and swelled, feasting on the pure tidal air.
We placed the cars in town and debated our next moves. It was too late to find a camp site and the parking boasted all-night possibilities.
Some were eager to set up camp. I, like the drivers, were eager merely for strong drink. We headed to the bar our friend had recently begun work at, hoping to find him ensconced in a bright, vibrant, beautiful new scene, amazing, wonderful people clinging on to his every word and fabric as he related harsh, embittered tales of Northampton, the lost land, neither as 'likely' and London or as nasty as the North, Middle England's triumph over solid character profiling.
He sat, keeping the interest of two beautiful, young ladies at the bar. Other than these two the place was empty. Beautiful, open to the street, wooden benches, leather chairs, shelves full of fine licquor. The bar fairly smelt of sea. The rapturous moment of reunion was beautiful. Then drinks occured. Many in our party had nothing to contribute to the bar tab, I however, was more than appropriately monied, so I proceeded to become admirably worse for wear.
Three drinks in thirty minutes and several had accidentally indulged in all manner of things. No sooner had we done this than people began expressing discontent at our lack of sleeping arrangements. This briefly registered as a factor but I soon agreed with Scott that there was a seemingly limitless expanse of coastline, no detectable wind and a forecast of the most beautiful weather the country has seen all year due as of tomorrow morning.
We gathered items to see the midnight spectacle of Brighton's skeletal, ominous West Pier. As we sat, uniformly facing the vast, black, roaring entity as it lapped around the roots of this living, breathing monument to the destroyed dreams of a time long since past, the structure beckoned me.
'Here I am, just over here, the water's lovely, come and see me, climb me.'
But I was fortunately still together enough to resist the temptation to climb the no doubt fatal former pier.
But the mind does wander.
'Everybody seems to want to go to Mark's house and stay there until the morning.' I explained to Scott.
'But we're on the beach.'
'I know, but they want to go inside.'
'We could have done that at home.'
'I know... I don't think we should do it here.'
'Definitely not.'
I checked my bag. Many, many beers, a coat, a blanket, food, medicine, treats, paper, pen, cigarettes...
'I think we should see what's over there,' I suggested, pointing vaguely to the shore curving out to the left of the pier, 'I bet whatever's over there is more interesting than what's here.'
We convinced the rest of our group that it what a good idea leaving two alcohol and substance fuelled humans to explore the barrier between land and sea with startling efficacy and bade them a fond farewell, promising we shall switch phones on and be contactable at daybreak. I hoped this wouldn't be necessary, but anything could happen between later and now so I was prepared for all eventualities.
As we walked the millions of unwieldy, uncomfortable, pitch black pebbles hindered our progress. We crossed two giant concrete walls 9that later, to our delight, discovered were named 'groynes,') and a few hundred yards of awkward beach before deciding to rest for a little while. It was time to consider what lay ahead.
Slow progress was made but much discussion was had. The love for theatre, performance, entertainment reared it's ugly head and we disputed the nature of the purpose of living to entertain, inform and offend. 'Til the sun rose from behind the flats, houses and hotels of Brighton front we made little progress across land, but gigantic leaps in understanding the world and what made it laugh and think.
As daylight crept across the ground, illuminating the world around us, we became aware of civillians using this sombre time of day to prepare themselves in the ocean.
We had discussed the obtaining of presents for those close to us back home. We had decided on presents that our friends would enjoy. We had also decided that not contacting our travelling partners for a few days would be far more interestng than just going home.
We continued our quest to see what was 'over there' until we happened across two young girls frolicking in the brisk morning waves.
The presents would be as follows:
Achieve something that would make Cid applaud.
Get Cid a wave.
Find Garrett either a frog or a crab.
Get a present for Thompson.
Get a wave from the sea and wave at Cid.
Before overfilling our task list it became clear these would require focusing on first. There was no suitable shore for collecting wildlife for miles yet, the vast reach of Brighton's promenades and walkways had shone right to the horizon all night, that would be a gift to obtain during days five to ten.
The bottle we planned to catch a wave in still had the vital remains of the non-alcoholic beverage within, so that could wait 'til later.
Thompson. This man needed a present more than most. But how? What would be fitting?
Exhausted from all these kind thoughts we settled back into making sure we were as unsober as possible. This took very little time, and we soon decided it was a good idea to stay here for a while.
'I reckon, we should just say to hell with it and find ourselves some means of employment whilst we figure out how to get back home.' I had already begun to worry how we'd make it home, and craved the comfort of earnings.
'But we look like shit, how can we get jobs looking like this?' Scott's question was reasonable. I wouldn't have employed me.
Flicking through the mucky pages of my memory I recalled, as we parked, seeing two gentlemen stood outside the back door of a casino it tuxedoes. Very nice tuxedoes come to think of it.
'Maybe we could borrow their tuxedoes,' I ventured.
'They won't be working again 'til tonight. We have a lot of presents to get remember.'
'Well, when night comes round we'll just borrow their tuxedoes. Use today to arrange an interview for tomorrow.'
'They won't give us suits.'
'God damn it,' I shouted, 'But we need this work. Otherwise how're we going to get Thompson his present.'
Simultaneously we eyed each other, sharing the greatest idea we've ever had.
'GUNS? GUNS? DO YOU HAVE, OR KNOW WHERE TO GET GUNS?' we shouted in unison at the frolicking water-girls. 'GUNS? IT'S VERY IMPORTANT.'
Abject terror smothered both of them. One fell backwards into the surf and curled up foetally, floating briefly on top of the lapping waves. The other stood, alarmed by the frankness of our inquiry. As we got louder and closer they seemed less likely to provide help.
We never actually reached them. One evaded us and returned to shore, the other fled into the rolling arms of the Channel. I am almost one hundred percent certain I saw her shape come to shore some half an hour later but I couldn't be sure, as I didn't want to approach too closely for fear of reprisal.
We returned to shore and reconsidered our tactics. We drew up a series of plans, each working into the other dependent on the outcome of the individually numbered steps. The plan overall consisted of the following steps:
Find guns.
Steal tuxedoes.
Get job interviews.
Save up.
Get healthy.
Read more.
Buy Thompson a present.
Make Cid applaud.
This seemed fairly rational, however we devised a number of routes to this conclusion. Obtaining guns through Brighton's criminal underclass was out of the question, we were in no position to barter for offensive weapons, and we had no money.
'Do coastguards carry guns?'
'Maybe on their boats. How do we find out?'
It was really the only reasonable option. When you need a lifeguard you need an accident.
'Hi there, lovely morning.'
The lady responded on Spanish, and Scott and I were none the wiser.
'I said, lovely morning isn't it?' I tried again, hoping she'd make this easier for all involved.
'Yes, thank you, good holiday!' So her English was less than perfect. This didn't matter.
Plan A, Step 1: Drown Person.
Her ankles kicked about an awful lot, splashing around, breaking free momentarily from my grip and then getting caught again in the freezing splashes of sea. Scott's headlock had been ineffectual. Despite the struggling however we were soon the proud owners of a poor, drowned tourist. The plan had so far worked. Wracked with guilt, Scott and I were forced to obtain the assistance of a passing lifeguard. Preparation would have entailed us having at least two flares. No such luck.
Three hours floating in the cold, vacant water before assistance came. As we were dragged from the current a dumbfounded coast guard offered sympathy for our discovery of the poor Spanish lady. We were swathed in blankets and told we'd be home soon. I saw no guns near him, but I saw a tazer strapped to his left leg.
Obtaining the tazer was more troublesome. The man was tall, fit, strong as an ox, and it took all of twenty minutes to make him sink back to the sea floor.
An issue had arisen. We were now in possesion of; Spanish corpse, Sea tazer, Coast Guard boat, vital bag of supplies and heavy, heavy hearts. Between us we surmised that the security guards in tuxedoes that will go out the back for a cigarette tonight would most likely withstand the bite of mere tazers, and unpicking the spines from their skin would potentially ruin the finish of the tuxedoes they were wearing. Then we'd look woefully less than dapper at our interviews. A new plan was drafted:
Step 4: Use tazer to interrogate police officer as to whereabouts of guns.
Step 5: Get tuxedoes.
I was sure that by this late juncture any passing officer of the law would be willing to grant us an audience, but I knew it would put us at a disadvantage. We needed a more innocuous opening gambit.
If cargo ships aren't born from lightning striking the sea's surface then they should be, and we've all been wasting our time here.
'Let's sail to unprotected waters and get guns from pirates. We might even see some lightning and cargo ships being born.'
Within minutes we had set sail for unprotected waters. This was a long way away, we knew that much. We weren't 100% sure which way they were, or whether we'd make it (we were down to twelve beers left, dire straits.) The sea was choppy and the beaches were beginning to fill. As far as we knew no one was after us yet, but we were both very confident it wasn't safe to return to the casino where we could get the tuxedoes from 'til night fell.
'Over there' had a large hill behind it, carving a promising obelisk to journey to. We set a course and set sail in our sail-less vessel. The sun by now has fully emerged and was slinging the most skin tingling rays I'd felt since my travels in Equatorial Africa.
The hill grew slowly larger, and as we trudged towards it a sense, inexplicable yet impossible to ignore, that upon the hill sat a restaurant offering buffet lunch. By my approximations the sun was four to five hours from high noon. More than ample time.
A lack of seafaring skills meant the shorebound tides outfoxed my navigational skills. We collided with the mostly submerged concrete groyne just in time to greet the first wave of sun-hungry visitors. There was some commotion, and a fisherman planted deep within the surf suffered terribly as the speeding craft leapt into the air, right through his fishing rods, truss, boxes of equipment and semi-naked countenance. The Spanish corpse flew skyward and landed with a thud some four hundred yards from the shore in a perfect swallow dive.
Regaining consciousness, the back of my body pocked with pebbles, I saw before me a balding native gesticulating wildly. I was, somewhat miraculously, still clinging to the all-important satchel of supplies and Scott regained his consciousness almost simultaneously.
Running was difficult. Soaked to the skin and clutching heavy bag and clothes, the morning trade glared at us like beasts destroying the sombre calm of the beautiful morning atmosphere. But I still had the tazer. We would have jobs by sun-up tomorrow.
We found an old gentleman in a cream suit and stetson. He was aged beyond count, ruddied by a life of salty gales and hard graft. We had brunch, he enjoyed his especially, and we inquired about several of our tasks. He didn't know the whereabouts of any guns, but told us of a police station just a couple of miles 'over there' which gave us hope.
Back on the beach. Calm. At peace. Mind flitting at set intervals between complete focus on the impossibility of the sea, and the fearful facts that lie on land. The opportunities. To live on the sea for a month, just you and the sea. Safe. Apart from everything. No consideration but the size of the waves, the heat of the sun and the next meal. Imagine being that free.
Within seconds of entering the police station the flaws of our plans became paramount. Fleeing the scene was a lengthy process, and one that I'm still unsure of whether the police knew they were involved or not. There were a lot of them, but none of them looked like they knew what they were doing. At rest on the beach some minutes later, it was decided we needed to make contact. An hour passed and all plans were described in detail in letters to Cid and Kitty. Now all we needed was a post office.
Brighton Post Offices are very friendly places and the letters disappeared from our grips with the grace and ease of a butterfly. Thank you Brighton and Hove Post Office.
Were we in Brighton or Hove? I thought we had made it to Hove by this point, which made me feel satisfied that the day had not been in vein. We still, however needed guns, and Hove was looking as gun-free as Brighton. Despite some placards subtly describing our plight being read by several what looked like natives, no guns came our way. It was time to call in the troops.
Apparently none of our friends could get any guns, so we decided not to talk to them again and focus on the task in hand.
We couldn't believe our eyes. Laying there on the beach, was a big, shiny gun.
Getting the tuxedoes the following evening was easy. So easy that, using the gun as well, we secured a shift as security guards for some underground poker tournament that apparently wasn't happening at all.
By day break the next day we had money, tuxedoes, guns and breakfast.
Thompson was purchased a really big drum made by a small man on the beach. It was lovely and smelt of kelp.
I still want to go into unprotected waters.
THE END
Friday, 14 August 2009
Scars Like Medals
The Jesus freaks amassed outside the dilapidated church. A tiny, weather-worn, 70's Methodist monstrosity, the giant windows filthy with airborne miasma, the untended grass patch surrounding it littered with discarded lager cans, hypodermics and the remnants of red-top tabloids.
These people had no thirst for God, just a thirst, a need, a desire to smell each other's acrid stench, to wail and wave at those less fortunate than themselves, a spiral of self affirmation that winds and coils until the last man, that stewed dreg of stagnant flesh and organs, that lowly, hunched, putrid, brainless nightmare who squawks and wobbles underneath the folding table littered with the crumbs of hastily devoured snack treats.
His eyes squeezed shut, the yellow-black beard swarming his chin, oily and irridescent, his brown hands clutching at his ragged and ruined suit trousers, so mired in filth some argued they possessed their own consciousness. His vest shirt so close to clean, a thrifty five-finger bargain from the garden of an unsuspecting human, yet the once pristine garment has since been drizzled in multi-coloured oral effluvium, dribbling from ulcerated gums.
Topeka Sanskrit (for this was the name Helen chose as her child was removed by the council and her husband laid his last fist upon her cheek) was ahead of the crowd. She shone, as much as filth can sparkle, her eyes as young and beautiful as the day she first smiled, yet her skin, broken, cracked, spotted and worn, betrayed her path since her matrimony to the father of her only child. The partly-toothless, gaping mouth utters words of faint encouragement to a shaven headed man, snarling with aggravation as a young, tracksuit clad boy threatens the withdrawal of a knife from his pocket.
'Go on, kick the cunt's 'ead in,' screams the dilapidated beauty.
'You fucking go now, or I'll get the lads and we'll chew your fucking throat out,' screams the bald man.
'Come on then ya fat cunt,' retorts the youth. 'You fucking try it I'll shank ya blud.'
'I'll fucking cut your throat,' bellows the overly-excited Topeka.
The ruckus begins and the bald man seizes the youth's attacking hand, snapping it back and holding it tight as the youth drops to the ground, momentarily whimpering before a second wind of bravery summons up more bile.
'You fucking... fuck you... you fucking with the wrong man... my old man's a kickboxer... he's gona break your fucking legs,' offers the helpless youth.
A crowd has formed, but no one intervenes. This is too good, their own kind, eliminating each other, a battle, a duel, as real as the pain in their stomachs and hearts. They jeer and goad and throw objects with the intention of maiming the participants, yet the majority miss, as they have drowned their fine motor skills in a sea of white cider.
'Let me 'ave a go,' asks Topeka.
The bald man picks the injured boy (for he was merely fifteen) up by his arm and thrusts him towards the expectant Topeka. She withdraws a scalpel and gouges away at his eyes and cheeks with the ferocity of a trapped leopard until his face is a mess of tendons and gore.
She drops the boy and trembles with fear. She knows she has stolen his soul, robbed him of his most prominent feature. She knows he will live, as the crowd has abated and settled in revelry, and the bald man, the original aggressor, eyes her with trepidation, unsure whether to hold her tight or flee in terror. Ensconced in the momentum of violence, she became feral, animalistic. Not evil, for evil is conscious, but uncontainable, remorseless, irrational.
She lets the scalpel fall from her hand and falls to her knees. The bald man laughs and encourages the crowd to continue their festivities. He drags the boy by his shoulders into the back of the church and drops an orange cross onto his lap.
The gnarled old man underneath the table watches, one eye open, as this whole awful situation unfolds. He is repulsed, he has seen evil in the flesh, watched acts of inexplicable horror perpetrated in the name of bloodlust, but he sees her eyes, her soft innocent eyes, and tears form in his. This girl, this awful, tortured mess of flash and gore rendered mute by her own primitive instincts.
He weeps, for the only time he can recall. He sobs into his greased hand, his ears filled with the hollering excitement of the younger, cleaner, healthier congregation.
'Your perfect eyes,
set upon milk white pillows,
draped with auburn, glistening hair,
atop the nose,
above the mouth,
the red, billowing lips,
and the Goddess body,
encasing the heart I need.
Let me kiss your skin,
and the transferring heat shall be the sorrows, the pain, the hurt in your soul.'
- for Helen,
Love
X
These people had no thirst for God, just a thirst, a need, a desire to smell each other's acrid stench, to wail and wave at those less fortunate than themselves, a spiral of self affirmation that winds and coils until the last man, that stewed dreg of stagnant flesh and organs, that lowly, hunched, putrid, brainless nightmare who squawks and wobbles underneath the folding table littered with the crumbs of hastily devoured snack treats.
His eyes squeezed shut, the yellow-black beard swarming his chin, oily and irridescent, his brown hands clutching at his ragged and ruined suit trousers, so mired in filth some argued they possessed their own consciousness. His vest shirt so close to clean, a thrifty five-finger bargain from the garden of an unsuspecting human, yet the once pristine garment has since been drizzled in multi-coloured oral effluvium, dribbling from ulcerated gums.
Topeka Sanskrit (for this was the name Helen chose as her child was removed by the council and her husband laid his last fist upon her cheek) was ahead of the crowd. She shone, as much as filth can sparkle, her eyes as young and beautiful as the day she first smiled, yet her skin, broken, cracked, spotted and worn, betrayed her path since her matrimony to the father of her only child. The partly-toothless, gaping mouth utters words of faint encouragement to a shaven headed man, snarling with aggravation as a young, tracksuit clad boy threatens the withdrawal of a knife from his pocket.
'Go on, kick the cunt's 'ead in,' screams the dilapidated beauty.
'You fucking go now, or I'll get the lads and we'll chew your fucking throat out,' screams the bald man.
'Come on then ya fat cunt,' retorts the youth. 'You fucking try it I'll shank ya blud.'
'I'll fucking cut your throat,' bellows the overly-excited Topeka.
The ruckus begins and the bald man seizes the youth's attacking hand, snapping it back and holding it tight as the youth drops to the ground, momentarily whimpering before a second wind of bravery summons up more bile.
'You fucking... fuck you... you fucking with the wrong man... my old man's a kickboxer... he's gona break your fucking legs,' offers the helpless youth.
A crowd has formed, but no one intervenes. This is too good, their own kind, eliminating each other, a battle, a duel, as real as the pain in their stomachs and hearts. They jeer and goad and throw objects with the intention of maiming the participants, yet the majority miss, as they have drowned their fine motor skills in a sea of white cider.
'Let me 'ave a go,' asks Topeka.
The bald man picks the injured boy (for he was merely fifteen) up by his arm and thrusts him towards the expectant Topeka. She withdraws a scalpel and gouges away at his eyes and cheeks with the ferocity of a trapped leopard until his face is a mess of tendons and gore.
She drops the boy and trembles with fear. She knows she has stolen his soul, robbed him of his most prominent feature. She knows he will live, as the crowd has abated and settled in revelry, and the bald man, the original aggressor, eyes her with trepidation, unsure whether to hold her tight or flee in terror. Ensconced in the momentum of violence, she became feral, animalistic. Not evil, for evil is conscious, but uncontainable, remorseless, irrational.
She lets the scalpel fall from her hand and falls to her knees. The bald man laughs and encourages the crowd to continue their festivities. He drags the boy by his shoulders into the back of the church and drops an orange cross onto his lap.
The gnarled old man underneath the table watches, one eye open, as this whole awful situation unfolds. He is repulsed, he has seen evil in the flesh, watched acts of inexplicable horror perpetrated in the name of bloodlust, but he sees her eyes, her soft innocent eyes, and tears form in his. This girl, this awful, tortured mess of flash and gore rendered mute by her own primitive instincts.
He weeps, for the only time he can recall. He sobs into his greased hand, his ears filled with the hollering excitement of the younger, cleaner, healthier congregation.
'Your perfect eyes,
set upon milk white pillows,
draped with auburn, glistening hair,
atop the nose,
above the mouth,
the red, billowing lips,
and the Goddess body,
encasing the heart I need.
Let me kiss your skin,
and the transferring heat shall be the sorrows, the pain, the hurt in your soul.'
- for Helen,
Love
X
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)