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weirdtongue
Monday, 23 October 2006
A NEEDLESS PALLIATIVE
Far too many ghosts believe that they actually exist, whereas, self-evidently, they are fallacious forgeries, iniquitous imitators, malicious mimics, cheap cheeky charlatans and other choice names that I can easily find to describe them, if the need ever arises. Simply because they are dead and have assumed a wispy watery whitish garb, they should not take it upon themselves to act like phenomena which, needless to say, cannot bear sane, sensible nor scientific scrutiny without shrivelling up into a yet more untenable gossamer of mumbo-jumbo, more akin to spiritual panaceas than delicious frissons of terror. You can be sure of believing me, because it goes without saying that I am the only genuine ghost in existence and, thus, very much in the know about such matters. So, rest easy and don’t ever, ever invest belief in ghosts, because, of course, I’ve retired. I gave up haunting even before so-called Mankind emerged from the primeval slime.
(The Third Half 1994)
Posted by weirdtongue
at 9:00 AM BST
ANGLING
By the weed pool, the fat man sat. The heat of the day had made it seem natural to be bare...but, of course, with the beer belly between, he could never seem nude to himself...except, on reflection, by other means. He stared into the pool, watching colourful fish amid his own mountainous geography. By some quirk of light and meniscus, he suddenly envisioned a winsome woman draped in fine greenery and darting jewelery, fantail eyebrows above sparkling nipplestones. He shook free of the daydream, before the flattering image could take purchase. He was not fishing for compliments. His flyrod cranked like a crane, in full view from each and every angle. (published ‘Small Press Scrappings’ 1991)
Posted by weirdtongue
at 8:53 AM BST
ZONE FEVER
(It goes without saying that this tale is about some folk who live in a different universe...) The demonster hopped from zone to zone, casting the more unsavoury parts of its body into the sidelines but as soon as one part went the way of its predecessor, another grew for ungrafting. The citizens by this time had become accustomed to these busy, busy, busy critters riddling their streets with lumps of their skin cancer as well as the more dick-dory appendages. . .and almost welcomed this offure for their gardens. For once planted. these discards grew.quite quickly.into trees of interlocking tumours bearing. within days, great big dollops of putrid fruit. “Nuff to keep us goin’ in these hardening times...” would say Ol’ Ma Manning.as she harvested the over-rich ruptures and melonheads from the meshed vines of her own particular zone Only the demonsters could straddle the zones. For one zone was as distant from any other by time rather than space - and it was time of wnich the citizens had very little. “Gif me jus’ one hour extra before I do die, and I will use it to do good for others.But fings being like they are, I’ve got no time but for meself,” Ol’ Ma Manning repeated to her neighbour as they leant across the zone fence. “Times is ‘ard ‘ere too,” came back the usual response. The demonsters took such conversations between the two zones, toting message pads like there were no tomorrows. But,one day,the demonster of which we speak.entered burn-up on a particularly energetic gambol between two tight interfaces. In transit, it jettisoned its beer belly, that had been particularly scorched, into a field that was near unto where O1’ Ma Manning was pegging up her late husband’s trews on the washing-line. “Gor blimey, enuffer bleedin’ oo-fo,” she told the ghost of her husband who was evidently just the wind ballooning out the trews. The zones nudge each other in the night, like an audience at a saucy film. And from the tightening ancient furrow between two eroding historie, .there bloomed a swollen bagging of blood atop a mighty tree-stalk of mottled, knotted flesh that threatened to encroach on another universe. The demonsters clamber it like an infant school of spiders, apparently zoned out and looking for Earth itself.
(Divine Rights 1988)
Posted by weirdtongue
at 8:52 AM BST
WHEN DUSK MET DAWN
The blue blanket, in its role of makeshift curtain, clung to the surface condensation of the window. It bore an archipelago of stains, imaginary worlds where the non-sleeper was able to cruise ... during those endless hours at dawn and dusk, when his thoughts would otherwise have slipped back into the viler self-made geography of his mind. Only yesterday, he had met the one person who would ever mean anything to him, if indeed people CAN have a meaning. He still heard her voice in this very room: “It’s time to say bye bye, Tom.” There was no reply he could summon. He had found her in the small supermarket down the road, where the few cans left over from the last rush looked lost amid the empty spaces among the shelves. He was after tomatoes which, in cans, were so different from those of a fresh variety ... in their blood soup looking for all the world like bodily innards. He told her that he was making lunch for himself and that he already had more than enough to go round two mouths. As they left, the checkout man said, “It’s a rum old world innit? Nobody can eat nothing, these days, with all the scares.” Tom smiled knowingly. “People’d rather starve than risk an unknown disease that can eat away at their bodies...” he suggested, after an embarrassing silence. “Yes, I’ve had to put Government stickers on everything ... It cuts into the profits so.” They left together, hand in hand ... for what had people in common but companionship in such times? They carried on a fitful conversation until they reached his flat. Realising that the key had been left unintentionally inside, he forced entry, at the same time trying to conceal the ease with which he did this. He did not want her to know that his occupation was tantamount to squatting. These days, nobody did anything to earn a living, for even money could not buy what one really needed in life. Lunch was to be from a casserole he’d had simmering for months. She turned up her nose as he revealed the churning brown gruel with nrecognisable lumps floating. He took the ladle from the wall, stirred it noisily and then returned it to the oven. Even sex was out of the question, because she’d watched the news, the same as everybody. Nothing was safe, he agreed. They did take a few nibbles at each other in the kitchen, which was almost erotic. “Dad’s told me that Mum died from him you know?” she said, as she walked over to inspect the blanket. Towards the bottom, it was fraying, each teased-out fibre ending in a slowly forming bubble of damp. “Have a go, if you want. I don’t need any till tonight,” he suggested gratuitously. The water authorities had long since been privatised and it was said in some quarters that they had pumped undiluted acid rain to the taps, in the hope that nobody would end up noticing. Tom then understood that falling in love was not a lost art. How could he have offered her a suck of the blanket, otherwise? “Come in ...” He lifted aside the grubby lip of sheet, demonstrating how dark and warm it must be within. “We don’t need to do anything dangerous, just cuddle and comfort ...” “No, it’s too late. How do I know I can trust myself?” Her voice shook with emotion. She recalled the exploratory nibbles in the kitchen, still sucking on the bit of spare ear-lobe which she pressed against her bare cheek-lining with the tongue. As Tom picked his teeth with a fingernail he’d only cleaned out fully that very morning, he could hear the distant wail of sirens. Ambulances steered clear of starvation cases, because the drivers wanted to avoid both the temptation and danger inherent in near-dead bodies. Thus, irrhythmically, they could be heard on their endless course on the ring-road ... their fuel caps open to the streaming air ... for when the pandemic chemical stews filtered back through the ragged rainless clouds of black smoke, everything but everything buzzed and honked. The terrible tragedy was that she kissed Tom goodbye, tongue to tongue. Tragic in more ways than one, since he then couldn’t say how much he loved her before they separated. He slept soundly for once and dreamt of man-made disasters, himself on the point of becoming unmade man ... only to be woken by the blanket flopping to the floor, too heavy for its hooks. And the light flooded back.
(Peeping Tom 1995)
Posted by weirdtongue
at 8:44 AM BST
Updated: Monday, 23 October 2006 8:49 AM BST
Sunday, 22 October 2006
OWEN'S DAMASCUS ROAD
As he wended his way through the endemic mists that coiled about the mountainside, the warrior thanked God that he had been able to negotiate the morasses along the upward path. His thigh boots still showed the signs of the clinging weed, like the remains of a consumptive giant’s deep cough. Owen the Curd sweated. The higher air seared the flesh remaindered by his outfit with the slow-moving funnels of its relative cold. He’d been told to leave the Lower Lands as a representative of the Curd race because, self-evidently, the God could hear prayers more easily further up the mountain. However, nobody had dreamt that, because of the mists, the God would not be able to be seen so readily as from the villages in the valley, during such two-way conversations which, in these parts, prayers had long since become. Nevertheless, being a race particularly hard of hearing, many misconceptions had grown up concerning the God’s own responses in those interchanges. Hence, Owen’s mission.
As he squatted on a tussock to catch a breather as it passed by on the turgid air flows, Owen visualised the God he had seen so often before: a moving face in the sky timelessly forming and unforming like clouds of flesh; the deep inarticulate thunder of the voice, much as a doctor’s must seem to patients in the local hospital; the forks of lightning jabbing across the cumulus eye-sockets; the groping fingers of roiling bone lovingly reaching out to those who prayed ... Once the image was fixed in his own flittering mind, Owen spoke:
‘O, God, I’ve been sent to pray for victory in the war against the Iron Men …Us Curds need your help ... Please answer our prayers ... This is the make or break of our race ... We’ve never before prayed so hard ... If you like, we’ll make it our very last prayer ... If only you would please, please answer this one prayer…’ Suddenly, out of the mist, there strode another warrior, towering above Owen, with muscles that rippled down the tightening cords of his neck and chest (bare, despite the nagging chill). The huge two-handed broadsword, actually scabbarded in the flesh and bone at the side of his body, sparkled by its own light as it was withdrawn.
‘Why should I answer you Curds, and not those prayers spoken with equal earnestness by the Iron Men?” came the roar, plucking syllables from the thunder like seeds from a pomegranate.
Owen was disturbed. This could not be the God of the Curds, for He did not resemble in any way the visualisation of the memory in the sky. Immediately suspecting it was a mortal representative of the Iron Men themselves, on a similar mission as himself, Owen stood up, his wet-weather gear cracking and crazing over with a strange geography of ice. He would have to undo all the toggles, before he could get to his own broadsword. So, he decided to play for time:
“…Because our cause is just.” “The Iron Men’s cause is just too.”
It was a mystery to Owen how there could be two just causes in one war. This could not be a God in any shape or form. By now, he had disentangled his weapon, and slew the taller warrior with one fell swoop; his aim was true, slicing with consummate downward ease through the skull, the chest, and, finally, the swag of intestines hanging between the legs. There was no chronology of wounds, just the instantaneous act. The two halves split asunder, scattering a purple clotted brew in all directions. Owen thanked God that his wet-weather gear was still relatively intact, as the other warrior’s innards filled-in between the ice-limned countries on his sou’wester with the bays and gulfs of tropic spume. Owen’s face, however, was open-mouthed and, as a drowning swimmer would involuntarily gulp the bitter salt of the waves, he found himself sinking downwards with the outcome of his sword-stroke.
Eventually, in a state of utter exhaustion and choking upon the phlegmy knot of his own body’s anti-viral defences in overdrive, he staggered down the mountain, the mists left behind stained pink. Alas, he found all the Curds and Iron Men had killed each other off in even nastier ways than he could have dreamt after a lifetime of warriorhood.
As a brave man, Owen would have committed suicide, if his own body had not already done the job for him: he realised, in his garbled way of thinking, that there need not have been a war at all if both causes were indeed just. Or even unjust, for that matter.
The thunder rumbled above the unpopulated valley, as if God were moving his furniture. (Mystique 1990)
Posted by weirdtongue
at 8:29 PM BST
Updated: Sunday, 22 October 2006 8:40 PM BST
THE LOAN
‘What do you want the money for?’ He stared across the large leather-topped desk, empty except for a blotter. His eyes were sporadically hidden behind glasses that reflected the window with the rhythm of his head movements, much like a pair of erratic lighthouses. So, the power of the stare was magnified by my inability to follow his look... ‘To ease cash flow problems.’ It was a pretentious way of saying I was stony broke. Better than showing him the holes in my pockets. I eased out into day-dreaming: the bank manager was laid out in an open-topped coffin, one with curlicue knobs on. Sovereigns rested upon his eyes, glinting in the communal flame of many closely-stemmed candles. His hands, embossed with ring-studs of onyx and old gold, were poised in tranquil prayer upon the imperceptible rising and falling of his chest. The cuff-links were designed in the shape of black horses... I unravelled myself from reverie, only to find it was my turn to say something. Conversations tend to be like that: duties on both aides (except, of course, my late mother, who’d only required someone’s silent face to bounce off a continuous flow of gossip and counter-gossip). ‘Sorry, could you please repeat the question?’ “What security can you offer on a loan, Mr White?” I found myself idly looking out of the bank’s high rise window, where light was quickly dying from the sky. It was as if blueblack ink was seeping from one quarter of the universe to the other. A herd of dark clouds stampeded over the horizon. A union jack upon the flagpole of another building attempted to flee its perch, and join the pair of long johns that had escaped from some old dear’s washing-line; no doubt to create together some act of carnal patriotism in the night sky, in memory of the world wars that have grown out of fashion... I was again stirred from my dusk-dreaming, only to find that my friendly bank manager was searching through his waste paper bin. He had it upon his desk, one of its jagged corners scoring the flesh of the work surface. He seemed desperate to find something or other. A scrunched up ball of paper. Evidently, I’d been let off the hook, at least for a while, so I returned to the back of my mind, where I felt safest... I returned to the front parlour of candleflame and corpse. This time, I could see the faint ringworm blotches of moulder. The patches were randomly situated, one faintly outlined in bottle green upon the cheek, others in close fester around the knuckle joints of the left hand and a particularly large one on the sole of his bare right foot, made up of inflamed pores and overnourished goose pimples, threatening to turn all the colours that a rainbow disowned. The chest still rose and fell with the rhythm of the flickering waxlight, but I suspected it was that sluggish pulse inherent in body decay which caused this mockery of life... “Ah, I’ve found it, Mr White. I thought I’d filed it there.” He replaced the bin under his desk with a flourish, and started unscrewing the paper he’d retrieved. I guessed it must be some computerised rubbish confirming that I was uncreditworthy, because I’d once defaulted with a company that sent me assorted stamps through the post, as a result of answering an advert in the Beano comic. Who wanted ten identical editions of a Spanish stamp hearing the moustachioed features of an old geezer who looked more like my late Dad than was good for him, anyway? Out of the window, I could see a whole fleet of ladies’ frilly underwear sailing into the dark blow of the night. I decided: Why the hell do I need money in a dream anyway? I stormed from the interview room, leaving a bemused pile of bespectacled chunky green slime trying to slither from the chair into the gaping confines of the wastepaper bin carefully placed to receive him. Only the jewelry retained any sort of integrity... (Mind’s Eye 1990)
Posted by weirdtongue
at 8:16 PM BST
INCHWARE
I hardly recognised the lady. In her finery, she looked nicer than she did when I first saw her in the lounge bar of the Bell and Steelyard. On that occasion, the hastily thrown on clothes that she had automatically found at the forefront of her wardrobe had done her no justice at all. Tonight, however, she was obviously putting on an effort for me. ‘This is a much better place, isn’t it?’ I said, even before sitting down. My insistence on our first official date being at a venue different from that for the original off-chance encounter was based on a gut feeling that relationships could take no chances. In retrospect, I should have been surprised at her willingness to wait for me in a pub, whilst still alone. Most women of my acquaintance would ensure they were later than the man, so as to avoid unnecessary embarrassment. Something I took for granted. ‘Never tried this one before.’ The lady’s reply was instantaneous. She nervously weighed the back of her bouffon. ‘I see you’ve already got yourself a drink.’ I nodded towards the half drunk remains of a fluid that looked like undiluted bleach at the bottom of a tumbler. ‘I’m not late, am I?’ I added during a pause for afterthought. ‘No ... no. It’s just that it’s raining outside.’ ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ My face was large and I wore whiskers to cut down on the bare frontage. My old best grey suit cut into my behind proving, if nothing else did, that I was not in the same shape as when I was younger. I’d tried to liven up the ensemble with a floral tie. The white ankle socks you couldn’t see: my legs must have grown shorter over the years, too; whilst the flairs had grown wider, by the look of them. I felt self-conscious of my spectacles, like peering through a porthole in a ship. Without another word, I turned to the bar where I intended to obtain a drink for myself. I was not in the mood for one, but even I understood that you wouldn’t be welcome to sit down in a pub without one. I should have brought a thermos of tea and some plastic cups. It cost more than a bomb to buy even a soft drink in a place like that. A number of pubs have now started to sell cups of coffee but, even so, you felt a wally asking for one from a blousy girl whose only skill in life was pulling pints. I had chosen this pub because the clientele was customarily well dressed. You could tell a lot from a person’s garb. However, I was perturbed to discover that I had forgotten that the staff were definitely more than one cut below the average punter. A surly individual, whom I understood to be the manager, scowled, as I approached the bar. His suit did not seem to have had even the lick of an iron for several wearings. The tie was ill-knotted, more a Y than a small Q. His face was only something you could write to doctors about (preferably skin specialists). The manner of his service made me wonder if I’d done something wrong. Instinctively, I looked round to see if I’d soiled the carpet, quickly realising it was already one huge horizontal wall-to-wall dog dirt. The drink he poured out for me was flat. When I complained, he said it was not meant to be fizzy and, even if it was, it’d probably give me wind. I scowled back - a bit late in the day, but I hope he got the point. My mother always told me that you can say more with the face than ever your tongue can get round. If I say so myself, I’ve a pretty rum selection of old-fashioned looks for all eventualities. Not waiting to witness him reeling back on the balls of his feet at the severity of my cutting expression, I turned my back on the little downsquirt and made for the table where I expected the lady, my date, still to be sitting. She was. But who was that with her? Didn’t look like me. At least I’ve got some dress sense. ‘Are you going to introduce me?’ I cannot recall exactly which of the three of us said that. Three of us? Three of me? Three of them? Three of you? Three of her? Three of him? All seemed to ring untrue. Whatever the case, one of the ladies (or both?) had an escort for the evening, so I left without causing any trouble. I don’t suppose, in the event, that ugly customer of a pub manager would have stood for any nonsense. Looking back, that word seemed to make sense of the whole affair. (Odyssey 1991)
Posted by weirdtongue
at 8:14 PM BST
LONELY HEARTS
‘It would have been a pleasure to meet you, given the chance.’ I said it again to myself - and then over and over to see if it made any more sense the next time. I was due to encounter her -... yes, quite accidentally the day after tomorrow. I already knew what her name was to be. The sad problems remained, however. Forgetting you afterwards. Denying the pleasure. (Dreams & Nightmares 1995)
Posted by weirdtongue
at 8:06 PM BST
THE THING OF THE PAST
Every night, there was a monster in the road outside my house. I knew this because I was an insomniac and one night, upon impulse, I peered through my bedroom window. And there, dog-shaped in the gutter, was what I assumed to be a monster. It seemed the obvious thing to assume. From time to time, the head reared on its neck and then flopped down again, as if it couldn’t be bothered to frighten anyone, even me. Or was it too frightened itself to move? So, every night since then, during those inevitable hours of sleeplessness, having had my fill of real dreams, I staggered over to the tattered curtains and, through a keyhole-shaped slit, fastened my cooling eyes upon that pulsing mound. Each night a smidgeon larger than on the night before. # “Are you awake?” Someone was making a hell of a row upon my bedroom door. I had fallen into a fitful sleep, which I usually managed to do Just before dawn. “No! Go away!” And whoever it was did. The previous night had been the seventeenth time I had watched the monster. It was strange that I could recall the exact number of sightings, but not make comparisons of size between the first and the last of them - if, Indeed, it were the last sighting. Like all of life, finalities only emerge in retrospect. Middles unmeasured. Beginnings often unanticipated and unrecognised. That voice at the door began to haunt me. It was not familiar: a female one, but with undercurrents of masculine depth. Probably a passer-through. Squats are like that. Eventually, I dragged my scrawny body from its pit. I frequently wish I could refer to myself without the use of the first person singular. I is so definitive. Makes escape impossible. I needed breakfast. But the cupboard was noticeably bare. Whoever had disrupted my belated sleep had evidently filched a bellyful. And scarpered with it. With no bye or leave. In hindsight, the food must have been disappearing over a period and only today did I notice this since the cupboard was finally empty. I needed a gulp of air. Tentatively, I opened the front door. Not even a tell-tale stain in the gutter where the monster had seeped its innards for most of the night. The cleansing-cart came early to these parts during those most sleepful moments. “Hey!” On the other side of the road was that stranger who had earlier accosted my bedroom door. I waved cursorily. I had been brought up to acknowledge people. Politeness bred to the very bottom bone. He or she was crossing the road, apparently to have a talk with me close-up. “Yes?” I asked, in the hope of getting at least one word in edgewise. “Big news! The place is going under the hammer today.” He or she pointed at the squat whence I had just emerged. This was not exactly big news as bad. It foreboded the end of an era. “How do you know?” I need not have worried about the allowances made by the stranger for normal conversation. In fact, the only reply to my question was a tap to his or her nose. I shrugged. I had heard such stories before. People often delight in bringing bad news, even if the news isn’t true. Then, I recalled the bellyfuls of grub pilfered from my larder-cupboard. “Hey! Did you pinch my food?” The stranger smiled. MUCH LATER: I have forcibly dragged the culprit to my kitchen and prodded my longest finger as far down its throat as I could. What lies on the linoleum makes me think that there will not be an eighteenth sighting of the monster. Sleepless nights are sure to be a thing of the past thankfully. (Published ‘Carnal Chameleon’ 1993)
Posted by weirdtongue
at 8:01 PM BST
MUSTARD KAT
A collaboration with Paul Pinn Your memory wavers like a fading photograph of a distant unimportant relative. However, your surname sticks in mind, gives you away. Charnock - charlock: a weedy annual of the mustard group; bright yellow flowers reflecting the day in cornfields down by the chicken coop where, back in some lean year, during a crisp brown fall, a rodent's nibbled teeth gnawed at an empty moment under a sick grey sky that frowned in vague torment at yet another lie as I left you to die, a bewiskered woman, a filamentary mole, burrowed 'neath the nap of past events, your spoor ugly hills 'midst other peoples' dreams. Hah! And to think you posed as something exotic hidden in a brightly coloured shell, like a pacific mollusc, expecting me to coax you out. If I had I would have missed the catch, and let's face it, there were plenty more fish in the sea without me having to spend time on thee, slug in a pretty shell, crossing your legs for me. But it's no good trying to escape from you. Every night I dream of flawless prisms of faceted gold glittering becalmed in a sea of mud, strange creatures milling around in attentive excitement, burbling and guzzling, probing and uttering sounds of pleasure, inebriation, desire. And when muddy hands reach out to touch the prisms and capture infinite spectrums, to twist and torture their colours, caress and love their brilliance, your form appears and turns my guts, and the prisms laugh, weave a slick temptation, flash smiles of silver beauty, a perfect manipulation with which to confuse me. Alas, the prisms fade as the gold facets dissolve into a glaucous backdrop, and your form remains bearing a warmth that sickens like the stench from unwashed armpits, and in that hour before wakefulness, you touch my body with a coldness straight from the sneering face of Time. And so the inebriated grow sober and lose their desire, and I awake, hungover but relieved, calm enough to face another day, close-shaven and without the Slough of Despond. I can think of your sister then, young Kat, who slinked like a horny wraith down to your father's cellar, pushed open the freshly painted door, and drank one of two vats clean dry. With her hippy hat she looked quite pretty, as she sat and watched a cat chase a rat round and round the other vat. But the cat was slow and fat and lost sight of the rat, which ended up sleeping on the brim of Kat's hat, the cat drunk on the contents of the second vat, Kat floating face down in what was left. Vats without bottom, young Kat. Vats without a top. They're cylinders which I dream through from beginning to end. Prisms I crawl through - breaking each golden shaft of dreamlight and letting it mend behind me. I seek your golden eye - the light at the end of the tunnel - a little girl's eye, whose innocence can only cast such heavenly guidance. You see, Kat, it was your sister who should've had it up to the neck. Not you. Not you at all. A circular tunnel is the worst tunnel of all - which is my own particular cellar - and it's where my bottles of red are stored, like glass sleepers. Until I touch them and find them softer than shellfish without shells. Wobbly containers, each with its own coiled-up soul of slumber. One drips a white cat-lick substance that the cork itself seeps. I wake yet again to summer. The meadow wafts with motes from shedding plants. Motes not moles, Kat. It's my whiskers that itch when you kiss my lips. Not yours. Picnics are nothing without the wine-cooler close by. Have another glassful before we retake the rhythm of our love. You're nicer than those characters I used to read about when I was a child - those peers of mine that Enid Blyton sent on adventures........into cellars. (Psychotrope 1996)
Posted by weirdtongue
at 7:59 PM BST
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