I Won’t Keep You

You have almost killed me so off I’ll set,
You can blame Aphrodite,
I won’t keep you.

Things you gave colour are stale
Like some inedible fruit.
I hung my truth on you, fool.

I’ll set my eyes straight ahead.
You have made me rage and torn me down
And I won’t keep you.

A Muse Me

Did you ever look at a piece of art or listen to a section of music and wonder of its origins and inspirations? Did you ever want to claim it for your own, not as the composer or writer but as it’s inspiration? Did you ever stand back and look for your reflection in the streams of colour or words and looking to see yourself as a Lear or even a Gaia.

Sometimes notes strike a chord that resonates so clearly on a personal level that you want to wrap yourself around it so that no-one else can drink it in. But conversely, what if the reflection of that inspiration is too murky or painfully sharp. Like a burning wreckage on the side of the road that you can’t look away from and it’s Eris or Apateo that sneers back viciously from the twists in melting glass.

Sometimes its wiser to remain a spectator. Simpler to just enjoy the art and try not to consider the big picture. Sometimes it’s better to just be happy with being one of a million strings that draws something together that to selfishly gather it to yourself and find you’ve been fated to be the Magpie in the corner.

The Cold Fires Began

I put the phone down on the counter and looked around having no recollection how I had made my way to the kitchen. Realising the unsteadiness of my legs I blew out a long cold kiss into the air and fell back against the wall. The second hand on clock seemed stunted, caught in the last second, unable to move on to the next. The narrow rectangular room swirled.

I leaned forward and pushed the phone to the back of the counter as if to distance myself from what had just occurred. It wasn’t enough and so to somehow trap the words I turned the screen on it’s face and slid down the cool of the linoleum floor. There I sat until He returned home, made me tea and sat beside me holding my hand and letting me feast on his body heat.

Once, Again

The wind pushed too hard that night and my hair mad with mess, we huddled for cover.

The church glowed in the distance against orange security lights and a playground of metal and dreaming swings silhouetting what lay outside us. A wall of tall trees swayed, holding hands,sighing in jealousy twenty yards behind us as the dim from the street played god against our horizon.

We were in love right there and then. Hours, months, years since poured into each other ‘s hands not understanding in those breathless moments the gravity and inevitability of the spread of fingers tired from a strange new exercise.

You and I, eighteen, in the middle of nothing, on a square of grey discovering purpose for the first time.

Close your eyes again now, love. This is it.

Shells

Something happens to people when they are falling in love, they evolve into something different. If you catch them at just the right moment, you can see them begin to crack open,their sheaths curling back like pages of a book, burning on a fire, exposing little sweetnesses between the lines.

They open up and unburden their hearts the way a woman takes off her jewellery after a long night, setting down those heavy pendant earrings and unlacing the stiff corset to slip into a loose comfortable robe.

They tell you all the pain pressed into their flat chests as they sift through the betrayals and regrets. Given encouragement, they grow younger and younger and they being to see things differently, like someone who has needed glasses for a long time—and finally having gotten them-they look around just for the pleasure of it. They see the detail, the colour and lights and sharp edges of what the world has to offer.

They drag out all the musty sorrows and joys from the basement where they’ve been shoved with old photos and shell collections. And after a while, they begin to glow, like souls slipping into the bodies of babies about to be born. A year goes by, or two and like broken bones those cracks begin to knit back together.

Things I Wonder

When Scientologists have sex, do they scream “Oh, L. Ron Hubbard, Oh, L. Ron Hubbard”? And of course by that logic all religions and their various deities. Oh Buddha, oh Buddha…

Honesty…

You won’t come by it here, as much as I might like to say you will.

And you won’t come by it there.

Honesty.

…

Honesty.

Can we really say that we are truly honest with anyone?

Anyone?

We compartmentalise our lives.

A friend who knows this.

A lover who knows that.

A colleague whose shoulder we dampened.

Our most trusted intimate companions who know everything but…

Can anyone really paint the whole picture?

It’s those secrets.

Secrets.

Something I both love and loathe.

Little lives, lived on the periphery of the registered reality.

Secrets.

The the fodder of a bored mind.

A requim for the dull or discontented

Secrets.

Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.

I didn’t really belong there at all

On the day I sat in the fifth or sixth row from the front. I didn’t belong with the family. My own family sat to my left, unspeaking, glaring even. The small child whimpered in the seat behind me and I bit back the urge to scream it into silence.

The Priest began to speak. For five minutes words like “so young”, “before their time” and “forgiveness” echoed in my ears. I felt elevated, as if my body was attached to strings in the roof high above. I was icy cold and my hands, scratched raw were numb through.

Then began the sermon. The Preaching. “For those who don’t walk with Christ, you will not understand this loss until you do.” With that I threw up on the parquet floor and left the bitter coldness of the chapel.

My First Blog Post

Pepper and CC invited me to join in. I don’t know why. They do computer, while I do typewriters. It’s a throwback to my rebellious college days. Everyone else embraced Facebook, I embraced the pen, paper and the Brother Typewriter.

Tonight, I sit. A few drinks on me. I look at my hands. They shine. There’s wrinkles. Far too many wrinkles for a 30 year old man. The shine is not a healthy glow. It’s greasy and dirty. I shower daily, but for all the good it does I may as well take a shower in vegetable oil.

I look under my nails.

Firstly, I see dirt. I should get some kind of nail brush. Then  I realise I’m holding my hand out like a puff, examining his nail varnish. I’m alone, but I still quickly put my hand down and look around to see if anyone saw me. Stupid really.

I’m 30 years old and my eyes are drooping down my face. My nose is lopsided. My adam’s apple seems to be building some kind of fort, how large it’s grown. My veins protrude through my skin. I’m sure if I was a junkie this would be a bonus, but I’m not. Instead, I’m a 30 year old man with junkie veins on my hands…and feet…and neck.

I’m getting old. I know I’m too young to say that, but I really feel it. All of my friends are either a number of years older than me (so I feel I sit in their age group) or they are many years younger (and I just feel like their older brother). I listen to the Beatles and the Kinks and Bowie. The closest I’ve come to liking modern music is Amy Winehouse…and she’s fallen off planet reality.

I have a smokers cough. I quit three years ago, but I can’t shake this cough. I sometimes cough up blood. It’s revolting. My doctor says it’s normal. He’s an ass.

I found a grey hair in my red beard yesterday. Yes, I’m a ginger bollox!! I’m a ginger bollox with a grey hair in his beard. Do I puck it? Do I dye it? Do I just ignore it?

My hairline is receding too. Actually, it’s developing some kind of tactical deployment. If it was simply receding, that would be fine. Instead, it’s like some kind of patchwork quilt…without the pretty colours and interesting designs.

Oh god!

I have a son too. Granted, he’s now exactly half my age and I haven’t seen him since I was a teen myself, but that adds to my contemplations on the everafter.

My brother died last year. He was…yep, you guessed it…30 years old. It was a heart attack. My grandad died of a heart attack at 33. My uncle died of a heart attack at 35. My cousin died of a heart attack at 31. And my brother – 30.

I drink heavily. I am recovering from an addiction to cigarettes. I don’t exercise. I drive everywhere. I have no girlfriend, no sporty mates, no fancy gym membership. If I make it to 31, I’ll be lucky.

So…I guess…wish me luck…

The Beginning of Things

I wait for him, very impatiently, in the back of the bar trying to look inconspicuous leaning against the wall by the phone in between the bathrooms. I try to look like I’m engrossed in checking messages but I’m keeping track of which bathroom has people in it.

Someone goes in one, someone comes out of the other, how am I supposed to keep track of this when all I can think about is him? Where is he? I can’t wait much longer. Finally, I see him walk in the front door, surrounded by his friends. His eyes scan the room and find me lurking in the back, and a devilish little smile crosses his lips.

 The group spot some free seats and move through the patrons. He excuses himself and moves away in the opposite direction making a beeline to the back. I shuffle back more out of sight, in case any of his friends watch him. He walks up to me and says “Hi there”, still smiling. I take one more look behind him, see nobody watching or approaching, and grab him by the hand, pulling him with me into the ladies’ bathroom, hoping that was the right one.

As soon as we get in, I slam the door shut and slide the bolt locked, and in an instant, we are all over each other. My hands wander every inch of his body I can reach while we kiss deeply, almost desperately, pressing our bodies together. I could go on just kissing him all night long but I know we don’t have long, and we both want more. We’ve been waiting days to be together again and all day I’ve felt myself grow hot and weak in anticipation of this moment. Every unsatisfied thought would leave a little trace of my anticipation, a growing spot that just reminds how much I want him.

As we continue kissing, he slides his hands down my thighs and grab the hem of my skirt, roughly hiking it up between us. He presses his head back against the wall in delight when he discovers that I forgot to wear underwear. I can feel him strain within his pants and he grabs my hand and presses it to him. I grab frantically at the clasp on his belt and slide my hand down inside his boxer shorts. As he slips my fingers between my legs, feeling the wetness and heat we’re creating, our lips and tongues continue devouring each other, unable to stop for even a breath. His touch almost enough to make me explode. No matter how many times he has touched me, every time is electric.

Nothing feels as good as his hands on me. That is, except for him being inside me, and I almost cannot wait. I reach down and wrap my hand around his and raise myself upwards. He steps forward and enters me, taking me breath. He stops, breaking our kiss for just a moment and looks me in the eye, one eyebrow arched, a moment more of teasing.

My eyes widen, begging for him to fuck me, and I soon he obliges, pushing forward firmly and sinking all the way inside. The sensation is indescribable. He knows perfectly how to satisfy me – giving me exactly what I want, exactly when I want it. This is not a slow, easy love making session. Maybe we’ll have that later. This is a fast fuck, satisfying what we want right then. I bite on my lower lip, trying to avoid screaming out. I feel my whole body tingle, my thighs shaking, every muscle tightening and releasing, the culmination of days of build up, wanting, longing, desiring this very release.

He is so good to me. I arch my back and tighten my legs around him, begging him with every inch of my body to cum with me. My body begins to shake and I can feel him twitching furiously inside. He stiffens a groan, I place my hand in his mouth and he bites down hard. The feeling of release numbs any pain.

Recovering I hop up, cleaning up a little, running my fingers through my hair. He smacks my ass as I walk out of the bathroom, with a promise of more the come. I return to my table with a smile that no one seems to notice, wondering when and where our next adventure will be.

It feels so deliciously naughty – committing such intimate details to permanent record.