Cocktail Menu
Luminous pink wine, and vodka shots that taste of treacle toffee and bubblegum. With every pulse things gets softer and deeper for her; until she throbs along with the dark streets, cracky with light and noise in the places where life happens. Years ago she danced home at four a.m., whipped about in the wind, with the dark knight who propped her up at the bar. Curls drooped, lipstick stained her face. He picked up the rag doll under her arms and told her it was bedtime. She wakes up now to a sharp, sharp pain, glittering and hot, slicing through her thoughts. Dusty lines start to wriggle and wrinkle from the corners of her eyes. The thick sweet sludge that cloys her throat has turned the nights to neon slush. Little flickering nerves are flayed and spliced. With horror she touches the side of her face gone slack.
Two medical students bend over leathery flaps of abdominal skin, groping through gristle for a bloated organ as big as a baby pig, a fibrous knotty mass of tissues. They wrinkle their noses at the acidic smell, hopelessly delving deeper. ‘I can’t stomach this after last night,’ they say.
Thursday, 21 April 2011
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
Ego Poem
How rude of her.
Will she ever stop talking?
She isn’t funny
Or interesting either.
I’m waiting to talk.
I’m funny
And interesting.
Teach her a thing or two
If she’d only shut up.
She’s telling me secrets
Begs I don’t tell
Who would I tell?
The stories are boring
I don’t know the names.
I’ve got secrets,
Juicy ones
Bout people we’ve both actually heard of.
She looks good at least.
And I told her so.
I look good.
It hasn’t come up yet.
Will she ever stop talking?
She isn’t funny
Or interesting either.
I’m waiting to talk.
I’m funny
And interesting.
Teach her a thing or two
If she’d only shut up.
She’s telling me secrets
Begs I don’t tell
Who would I tell?
The stories are boring
I don’t know the names.
I’ve got secrets,
Juicy ones
Bout people we’ve both actually heard of.
She looks good at least.
And I told her so.
I look good.
It hasn’t come up yet.
Under the Big Clock
I was certain, at any moment, the fingers of both my hands would be sliced clean off. The pain had become unbearable. Five full bags of shopping so weighty, the handles cut, agonisingly in to my tense hands like cheese-wire. I started to worry that the rain I felt, dripping down my fingers was actually blood, gushing from a deepening wound.
I had way too much to carry, on account of my old friend Barry, not meeting me when we had arranged, thus leaving me with the entirety of a load I was hoping to have halved with him. This was of no surprise to me, I remembered him being unreliable at the best of times, so the idea of some mild, manual labour probably put him off the meeting no end. The fact that he hadn’t seen me in seven years obviously held no sway on the importance of his punctuality, which under normal circumstances wouldn’t have bothered me, but I was a stranger here and had no idea where I was going.
If I didn’t see him at the supermarket, we had arranged to meet under the big clock, which I assumed would be close by, considering the load he knew I would have to carry. Fifteen, finger-slicing minutes later, I was stood under what I considered to be a pretty big clock.
Overhanging the busy high street, the white clock was supported by swirling black metal, like a full moon through tree branches. Two gold hands pointed out the time, whilst a small drummer-boy stood proudly on top. Quite a nice clock I thought. One might’ve even considered taking a photo, should they be bothered delving through their bag for a camera. It was too rainy for such routing.
I pushed my collection of bags, as well as myself, up tightly against the wall, with the intention of gaining shelter, scouting the faces of the many passers-by for the one I hoped to recognise. The pouring rain made it quite hard to make out anyone’s face too well. Most were huddled closely, under tightly gripped umbrellas, or lost deep inside dripping hoods. I took out my phone to give Barry a ring. I looked through my contacts to find four, separate numbers for Barry, Barry S, Barry1 and Barry New. Barry had always been irritatingly awkward to get hold of. Forever using borrowed phones or battered phones friends had given him out of pity, rather than throwing them in the bin, where they would be better suited. New phone-same sim card, same phone-new sim card, same number, new number, back to the old number. I always had various numbers stored for Barry and any one of them, or often none of them, could prove successful at any given time.
“For God’s sake Barry.” I muttered under my breath when he remained elusive after each number had been tried numerous times, especially Barry1, which unlike the others, was actually ringing. The others led to a variety of silken-voiced ladies from a variety of networks, inviting me to leave voicemail messages that would never be heard.
Having found myself a nice little niche against the wall, in a slight alcove, both me and my bags suitably sheltered from wind and rain both, I couldn‘t help feeling more than slightly irritated when a smiling, old face caught mine and chuckled
“Eh, you‘ve got the right idea there lad, budge up would yer.” before forcing his way into a non-existent gap by my side, seemingly oblivious to the fact I had chosen to ignore his request of budging up.
“Hang on mate, I’m not sure there’s enough… just let me shift my…” Ignoring my selfish pleas, the unwanted visitor‘s irksome lack of patience allowed me no time in repositioning my heaving bags. Hurriedly shoving them across the rough, stone-scattered floor with my foot, forced a tear in the bottom of one, sending an enthusiastic can of beef ravioli rolling, with surprising vigour, out into the rain-drenched stampede of shoppers. I bustled angrily out into the sodden street, grabbing clumsily at thin air as the peripatetic ravioli got kicked about the shiny cobbles by a variety of careless boots, oblivious to my confused fumblings. Any reassurance I needed that I wasn’t totally invisible to these people, unhelpfully kicking my can around, was offered by a group of youths, who seemingly found my ongoing, clown-like antics hilarious.
“Don’t lose your beans mate!” a vocal member of the group taunted, much to the amusement of his minions. I watched in dismayed resignation as the ill-behaved pasta parcels rolled inevitably toward him. The group laughed and cheered in delight as he picked up the can and lifted it triumphantly above his head like he’d won the World Cup.
It was a can of ravioli, I reminded myself rationally, not my wallet, or an expensive vase placed under my care to guard from rowdy youths. It was just ravioli. I waved a hand in defeat and turned to go back to the shelter.
“Aah come on man, we’re only messing with yer!” the ringleader shouted, in a tone of unconvincing guilt. Then to my surprise, he swaggered over and placed the can back in my suspicious hand.
“Here mate, have yer beans, we’re only messin‘ with yer.”
“Cheer up mate” offered another, patronisingly. I strained a smile,
“Cheers” I mumbled pathetically, “It’s ravioli.”
“Haha, enjoy it mate.” he said, amused that I thought he could care less. He laughed loud and boastfully back to his gang who greeted him with a variety of back-slaps, high-fives and general mirth, wandering off down the high street leaving me defeated and belittled, the old man loyally by my side, not feeling too good about myself.
“You need to stand up for yourself pal. You showed ‘em you were intimidated. They were laughing at yer.”
By now, I really wanted to punch the old man. Who did he think he was? Invading my space, judging me as I made a fool of myself and offering me clichéd advice. I desperately wanted him to leave. There was no way I was leaving. Why should I? It was my spot, I was there first. And besides, the rain was showing no signs of letting up and one of my bags had split.
I took a deep breath. The man was only trying to offer some fatherly advice and I wasn’t about to throw it violently back in his face. Besides, it was Barry I was pissed off with. Where the hell was he?
I politely smiled, nodded and mumbled in faux-agreement as the garrulous old man gave me his small minded opinion on every subject imaginable. I leant my head tiresomely on the cold, stone alcove, feeling more than sorry for myself. A feeling that only grew worse when the wind, which had been blowing the rain across the face of our shelter, now changed direction, aiming the downfall straight into our faces.
“Oh well, here we go.” the old man said happily, pulling up his collar and heading off back into the street. I’d been desperate for this man to leave for God knows how long, but now he had, I felt mildly insulted that he didn’t say bye, or that it had been a pleasure to meet me. I suppose I hadn’t been the most accommodating of companions. Anyway, such grievances were quickly forgotten as I was fast becoming drenched. I splashed across the street, bumbling with my bags, swinging and bashing against my legs, the one with the split, in my arms, like an overweight baby. I reached the covered walkway. I couldn’t have been more soaked to the bone if I had stood, fully clothed under a shower. I dropped the bags, cascading to the floor, I didn’t care about them anymore. I’d had enough and wanted to go home.
The more I waited, the more I thought it possible there was maybe a bigger clock elsewhere, with Barry stood beneath it impatiently awaiting my arrival. I asked a passer-by, whom I assumed was a local, if he thought that this particular clock would be referred to as ‘The Big Clock’.
“err I dunno…yeh probably.” he replied with a smirk and a shrug.
Very helpful.
Sat on the cold floor, playing a crudely animated game on my phone, I looked up to see none other than Barry himself, strolling carefree down the street, sharing a laugh and a joke with a friend. I struggled to my feet as my backside had grown terribly numb on the stone floor and held out my hands in a gesture that could only have been translated as “Where the hell have you been?!”
“Hey dude!” Barry called over, jovially. “How’s it going?”
“Shit.” I replied. “I’ve only been sat here about three hours Barry.”
“Sorry dude, you should’ve give us a ring, we’ve been in the pub.” Barry’s amiable tone was in stark contrast with the countenance of sickened disbelief I was displaying.
“It was pissing it down.” he continued, oblivious.
“Yeh, I noticed.”
“So we stayed for a couple while it died down. Ah cool you got the stuff.” He eyed the sorry looking bags splayed across the paving. “Shall we go for a pint?”
Part of me wanted to give him a piece of my mind and storm off back to the train station and go home, but as Barry and his friend bundled the shopping bags into their arms, allowing me to walk freely, it felt good to be talking to my old friend, and the idea of sitting in a comfy seat in a cosy pub was now more than appealing. I glanced down at the can of beef ravioli, packed tightly in my jacket pocket and headed off, merrily enough, down the street.
I had way too much to carry, on account of my old friend Barry, not meeting me when we had arranged, thus leaving me with the entirety of a load I was hoping to have halved with him. This was of no surprise to me, I remembered him being unreliable at the best of times, so the idea of some mild, manual labour probably put him off the meeting no end. The fact that he hadn’t seen me in seven years obviously held no sway on the importance of his punctuality, which under normal circumstances wouldn’t have bothered me, but I was a stranger here and had no idea where I was going.
If I didn’t see him at the supermarket, we had arranged to meet under the big clock, which I assumed would be close by, considering the load he knew I would have to carry. Fifteen, finger-slicing minutes later, I was stood under what I considered to be a pretty big clock.
Overhanging the busy high street, the white clock was supported by swirling black metal, like a full moon through tree branches. Two gold hands pointed out the time, whilst a small drummer-boy stood proudly on top. Quite a nice clock I thought. One might’ve even considered taking a photo, should they be bothered delving through their bag for a camera. It was too rainy for such routing.
I pushed my collection of bags, as well as myself, up tightly against the wall, with the intention of gaining shelter, scouting the faces of the many passers-by for the one I hoped to recognise. The pouring rain made it quite hard to make out anyone’s face too well. Most were huddled closely, under tightly gripped umbrellas, or lost deep inside dripping hoods. I took out my phone to give Barry a ring. I looked through my contacts to find four, separate numbers for Barry, Barry S, Barry1 and Barry New. Barry had always been irritatingly awkward to get hold of. Forever using borrowed phones or battered phones friends had given him out of pity, rather than throwing them in the bin, where they would be better suited. New phone-same sim card, same phone-new sim card, same number, new number, back to the old number. I always had various numbers stored for Barry and any one of them, or often none of them, could prove successful at any given time.
“For God’s sake Barry.” I muttered under my breath when he remained elusive after each number had been tried numerous times, especially Barry1, which unlike the others, was actually ringing. The others led to a variety of silken-voiced ladies from a variety of networks, inviting me to leave voicemail messages that would never be heard.
Having found myself a nice little niche against the wall, in a slight alcove, both me and my bags suitably sheltered from wind and rain both, I couldn‘t help feeling more than slightly irritated when a smiling, old face caught mine and chuckled
“Eh, you‘ve got the right idea there lad, budge up would yer.” before forcing his way into a non-existent gap by my side, seemingly oblivious to the fact I had chosen to ignore his request of budging up.
“Hang on mate, I’m not sure there’s enough… just let me shift my…” Ignoring my selfish pleas, the unwanted visitor‘s irksome lack of patience allowed me no time in repositioning my heaving bags. Hurriedly shoving them across the rough, stone-scattered floor with my foot, forced a tear in the bottom of one, sending an enthusiastic can of beef ravioli rolling, with surprising vigour, out into the rain-drenched stampede of shoppers. I bustled angrily out into the sodden street, grabbing clumsily at thin air as the peripatetic ravioli got kicked about the shiny cobbles by a variety of careless boots, oblivious to my confused fumblings. Any reassurance I needed that I wasn’t totally invisible to these people, unhelpfully kicking my can around, was offered by a group of youths, who seemingly found my ongoing, clown-like antics hilarious.
“Don’t lose your beans mate!” a vocal member of the group taunted, much to the amusement of his minions. I watched in dismayed resignation as the ill-behaved pasta parcels rolled inevitably toward him. The group laughed and cheered in delight as he picked up the can and lifted it triumphantly above his head like he’d won the World Cup.
It was a can of ravioli, I reminded myself rationally, not my wallet, or an expensive vase placed under my care to guard from rowdy youths. It was just ravioli. I waved a hand in defeat and turned to go back to the shelter.
“Aah come on man, we’re only messing with yer!” the ringleader shouted, in a tone of unconvincing guilt. Then to my surprise, he swaggered over and placed the can back in my suspicious hand.
“Here mate, have yer beans, we’re only messin‘ with yer.”
“Cheer up mate” offered another, patronisingly. I strained a smile,
“Cheers” I mumbled pathetically, “It’s ravioli.”
“Haha, enjoy it mate.” he said, amused that I thought he could care less. He laughed loud and boastfully back to his gang who greeted him with a variety of back-slaps, high-fives and general mirth, wandering off down the high street leaving me defeated and belittled, the old man loyally by my side, not feeling too good about myself.
“You need to stand up for yourself pal. You showed ‘em you were intimidated. They were laughing at yer.”
By now, I really wanted to punch the old man. Who did he think he was? Invading my space, judging me as I made a fool of myself and offering me clichéd advice. I desperately wanted him to leave. There was no way I was leaving. Why should I? It was my spot, I was there first. And besides, the rain was showing no signs of letting up and one of my bags had split.
I took a deep breath. The man was only trying to offer some fatherly advice and I wasn’t about to throw it violently back in his face. Besides, it was Barry I was pissed off with. Where the hell was he?
I politely smiled, nodded and mumbled in faux-agreement as the garrulous old man gave me his small minded opinion on every subject imaginable. I leant my head tiresomely on the cold, stone alcove, feeling more than sorry for myself. A feeling that only grew worse when the wind, which had been blowing the rain across the face of our shelter, now changed direction, aiming the downfall straight into our faces.
“Oh well, here we go.” the old man said happily, pulling up his collar and heading off back into the street. I’d been desperate for this man to leave for God knows how long, but now he had, I felt mildly insulted that he didn’t say bye, or that it had been a pleasure to meet me. I suppose I hadn’t been the most accommodating of companions. Anyway, such grievances were quickly forgotten as I was fast becoming drenched. I splashed across the street, bumbling with my bags, swinging and bashing against my legs, the one with the split, in my arms, like an overweight baby. I reached the covered walkway. I couldn’t have been more soaked to the bone if I had stood, fully clothed under a shower. I dropped the bags, cascading to the floor, I didn’t care about them anymore. I’d had enough and wanted to go home.
The more I waited, the more I thought it possible there was maybe a bigger clock elsewhere, with Barry stood beneath it impatiently awaiting my arrival. I asked a passer-by, whom I assumed was a local, if he thought that this particular clock would be referred to as ‘The Big Clock’.
“err I dunno…yeh probably.” he replied with a smirk and a shrug.
Very helpful.
Sat on the cold floor, playing a crudely animated game on my phone, I looked up to see none other than Barry himself, strolling carefree down the street, sharing a laugh and a joke with a friend. I struggled to my feet as my backside had grown terribly numb on the stone floor and held out my hands in a gesture that could only have been translated as “Where the hell have you been?!”
“Hey dude!” Barry called over, jovially. “How’s it going?”
“Shit.” I replied. “I’ve only been sat here about three hours Barry.”
“Sorry dude, you should’ve give us a ring, we’ve been in the pub.” Barry’s amiable tone was in stark contrast with the countenance of sickened disbelief I was displaying.
“It was pissing it down.” he continued, oblivious.
“Yeh, I noticed.”
“So we stayed for a couple while it died down. Ah cool you got the stuff.” He eyed the sorry looking bags splayed across the paving. “Shall we go for a pint?”
Part of me wanted to give him a piece of my mind and storm off back to the train station and go home, but as Barry and his friend bundled the shopping bags into their arms, allowing me to walk freely, it felt good to be talking to my old friend, and the idea of sitting in a comfy seat in a cosy pub was now more than appealing. I glanced down at the can of beef ravioli, packed tightly in my jacket pocket and headed off, merrily enough, down the street.
Lucky Cat
I took my lucky cat for granted
It had sat serenely, ushering in good fortune
a perpetually wagging paw
Shimmering in gold.
One day, its battery died
The paw ceased to wag
Motionless on the shelf
I didn’t care.
Life seemed good
The still cat, ignored
Unneeded
It waited, watched, wise and knowing
As my life fell apart
Arrogance
Self importance
Complacence
All was lost
I lay alone and undeserving on my bed
Sorrowful and ashamed
I spied the patient cat through tears
Pleading and desperate
And scrambled for a new battery
The paw started to wag
I breathed a sigh of relief
Perhaps good fortune could be restored
Through the fog of bad spirits
I sat hopeful and humbled
Never more grateful
Of my Lucky Cat.
It had sat serenely, ushering in good fortune
a perpetually wagging paw
Shimmering in gold.
One day, its battery died
The paw ceased to wag
Motionless on the shelf
I didn’t care.
Life seemed good
The still cat, ignored
Unneeded
It waited, watched, wise and knowing
As my life fell apart
Arrogance
Self importance
Complacence
All was lost
I lay alone and undeserving on my bed
Sorrowful and ashamed
I spied the patient cat through tears
Pleading and desperate
And scrambled for a new battery
The paw started to wag
I breathed a sigh of relief
Perhaps good fortune could be restored
Through the fog of bad spirits
I sat hopeful and humbled
Never more grateful
Of my Lucky Cat.
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
Magnolia Close. Coming soon.
Benson has a plan
Daisy has a worry about her son
Walter has a lump in his chest
Nasreen has a wedding coming up
Gladys has memory loss
Lucille has an official complaint against her
Buster has his duty. And a suspect
Daisy has a worry about her son
Walter has a lump in his chest
Nasreen has a wedding coming up
Gladys has memory loss
Lucille has an official complaint against her
Buster has his duty. And a suspect
Magnolia Close. Coming soon.
Thursday, 7 April 2011
Limerick
A nuclear scientist's mission
Was to choose between fusion and fission;
His brain overloaded,
Swelled up and exploded;
So no-one found out his decision.
Was to choose between fusion and fission;
His brain overloaded,
Swelled up and exploded;
So no-one found out his decision.
Breakdown
I need the number for the AA because it's happened again. Car at a standstill, this time in a dark deserted lane, miles from who knows where. I slam the steering wheel with clenched fists, a hiccupping sob escapes, tale-telling my frustration and fear. I grapple clumsily on the floor for my phone. Desperate, I lurch into the sluicing rain unsteadily slipping on the wet mud, I drop like a corpse to the ground. Tears and rain rivulet down my face as befuddled, I jab the buttons of my phone. "Samaritans? Help, I need the number for Alcoholics Anonymous!"
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
A Dribble of Fear
The piercing screech of the owl stopped John in his tracks. Beads of sweat crept down his brow as he strained to hear. He crouched behind a hedge and listened; he knew that they were near, but where. A twig snapped. He turned and saw the axe blade and screamed.
Pat Woodcock 20.03.2011
A Drabble of Fun
‘Stop that noise now,’ yelled Pam up the stairs to her noisy teenagers and their equally noisy music. She needn’t have bothered; it made no difference. She flung her arms in the air in despair then went into the kitchen and made herself a nice cup of tea. Still the music pounded in her ears. She took her drink and a small plate of biscuits into the family room and settled into the big armchair. Suddenly the noise stopped. Pam smiled to herself in smug satisfaction as she looked down at the hearing aids she now held in her hand.
Pat Woodcock 20.03.2011
A Droubble of Mischief
Trish was sick of Philip and his boasting. ‘Boys are better than girls’ was his most recent taunt. Trish had taken the bait on more than one occasion and been reprimanded. She had to wreak revenge in a way only she knew about. This would give her the final satisfaction to be able to ignore his future gibes.
The plan began to form in Trish’s head early in the afternoon. She smiled to herself as she enacted the scene in her head. She went upstairs and hid a white towel under her pillow.
Trish lay in bed fighting the urge to sleep. She waited until all was quiet. She got the towel and pulled it close to her as she crept onto the landing.
She entered Phillip’s bedroom, knelt beside his bed and put the towel over her head. ‘Phiiiilllipp’, she whispered. He did not stir. ‘Phiiillliiip’, she whispered again. Still nothing. She tried one last time, raising her voice slightly ‘Phiiillliiip’ This time he woke up, saw the shadowy white figure next to his head and screamed.
Philip got into serious trouble for waking the baby, and had to sleep with the light on for quite some time after.
The plan began to form in Trish’s head early in the afternoon. She smiled to herself as she enacted the scene in her head. She went upstairs and hid a white towel under her pillow.
Trish lay in bed fighting the urge to sleep. She waited until all was quiet. She got the towel and pulled it close to her as she crept onto the landing.
She entered Phillip’s bedroom, knelt beside his bed and put the towel over her head. ‘Phiiiilllipp’, she whispered. He did not stir. ‘Phiiillliiip’, she whispered again. Still nothing. She tried one last time, raising her voice slightly ‘Phiiillliiip’ This time he woke up, saw the shadowy white figure next to his head and screamed.
Philip got into serious trouble for waking the baby, and had to sleep with the light on for quite some time after.
Pat Woodcock
20.03.2011
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Magnolia Close. Coming soon.
Tricia has an admirer
Brooke has her suspicion
Foster has a shaky business
Jade has a new job
Maxwell has a health issue
Douglas has a record
Sammy has too much to drink
And Robert, new to the area, has a guilty secret.
Brooke has her suspicion
Foster has a shaky business
Jade has a new job
Maxwell has a health issue
Douglas has a record
Sammy has too much to drink
And Robert, new to the area, has a guilty secret.
Magnolia Close. Coming soon.
A Siren Calls.
The call came around tenish. Gregosz. Security job in Acton. Big money but their payoff was my silence.
Next night, I arrived at a disused Baths - an Edwardian ideal of working-class cleanliness and leisure. Nowadays it had become a mausoleum but inside, someone had splashed a lot of cash - excuse the pun.
State of the art, blue tiled pool in which I glimpsed a gliding shadow.
Gregosz beckoned and I noted a huge steel container and a net – the type used to catch wild animals.
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Gregosz smiled. ‘A Russian oligarch’s plaything.’
The water broke and the shadow surfaced. I registered a lithe body, covered in downy hair with a high-cheekboned, human face.
‘A real mermaid,’ whispered Gregosz as I gazed, mesmerised into almond eyes pleading, ‘Save me.’
Twenty four hours later I returned with the lorry. Gregosz’s key let me in and I went to the pool, unsure if the night before had been real.
I only recognised Gregosz from the look of terror on what remained of his face. One eye. Shredded net. Bloodied meat strewn across cobalt blue.
My heart was pounding as I saw her surface.
‘Save me.’
Next night, I arrived at a disused Baths - an Edwardian ideal of working-class cleanliness and leisure. Nowadays it had become a mausoleum but inside, someone had splashed a lot of cash - excuse the pun.
State of the art, blue tiled pool in which I glimpsed a gliding shadow.
Gregosz beckoned and I noted a huge steel container and a net – the type used to catch wild animals.
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Gregosz smiled. ‘A Russian oligarch’s plaything.’
The water broke and the shadow surfaced. I registered a lithe body, covered in downy hair with a high-cheekboned, human face.
‘A real mermaid,’ whispered Gregosz as I gazed, mesmerised into almond eyes pleading, ‘Save me.’
Twenty four hours later I returned with the lorry. Gregosz’s key let me in and I went to the pool, unsure if the night before had been real.
I only recognised Gregosz from the look of terror on what remained of his face. One eye. Shredded net. Bloodied meat strewn across cobalt blue.
My heart was pounding as I saw her surface.
‘Save me.’
Susanne
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