Sunday, 19 July 2009

Navidad

It’s that slow pressure tightening around your chest, making you feel as if you’re sinking. It’s the feeling of loneliness, the realization that your life has mostly been a waste right up to this point. People don’t like you that much, you fill that room they need, somewhere between acquaintance and work-mate, not far above strangers, but far from friends. Even in your own family, you’re more a distant cousin than a brother or sister. You sit in the corner and watch them whizz by, they’re laughing, flitting in and out of your gaze as if watching them in fast forward. It has a touch of high school about it. There’s a popularity contest going on beneath the surface, they jostle for position, who will be the top dog, and who will stretch their neck out to have it stood on, to let their favourite candidate reach the stars. They never even gave you a proper fucking chance.


I remember catching sight of someone across a crowded fair. She was my friend, well, a so called mate’s little sister. The only person who ever seemed to show more than a passing interest, not the usual person just looking for what they could get out of me. So yeah, I guess I had a bit of a crush on her, or maybe I just liked her for liking me, So I ran over to say hi, but when I got behind her and tapped her on the shoulder, she whirled around and it wasn’t her anymore. It was some girl who gave me a slack jawed expression, called me a creep and told me to piss off. I bought myself a drink and sat by the wire fence around the fair, picking the rocks out of the dry dusty dirt and skimming them across the road. I thought I saw her again, going to cross the road down further. I wanted to call out to her, but remembering the earlier mistake kept quiet. The next thing I remember was the screech of tyres and the sound of a half full can of coke rolling slowly down the road. It made the strangest noise.

Friday, 10 July 2009

Elasmobranch

Hello crispy fish, with your dull sunken eye, watching me morosely from your carpet tomb. All the fatty cells inside you burst and congeal, dry and petrify as your fainéant master languishes behind a screen of pixelated entrapment. The bacterias inside you rage and multiply, adding to the stink of the metallic wasteland where moths breed in dark tunnels. Discarded food rots around you without a cockroach in sight to clear it. Girls, eighteen and over, with their hot little wet vaginas. It’s all they want and all they can’t have. So your body wastes away to the sounds of moaning. And you wonder, as your scales turn slowly to black and your spine becomes more obvious, is there not more to life than this? Because you puff out and spill over, with a million breeding bugs, while I sit, like a giant ant queen, fattened and unable to escape. I feed, and so do they, my thousand billion children on a royal jelly of dead cells and an accumulation of filth.

Tuesday, 7 July 2009

Me and Mick Turate Down by the Urinal

It’s the slow hesitant walk to the men’s room. The furtive glance as you first break through the door, checking out the lay of the land. The struggle as you decide whether to pull up alongside and park yourself next to the person from cubicle number 5 that you don’t know too well. Or, could your masculinity take the hit, allowing you to sneak into a stall. You decide on bravery, nervously coughing as you unzip your fly beside him. And what do you say to this man whose stream of urine you’ve just interrupted. You both look about in opposite directions as if you have something much more interesting to look at than each other; successfully seeming far too busy looking at this important thing to engage each other in conversation. Yours starts flowing, and so again does his. He clears his throat in a similar fashion to your cough, zips himself up and tries to leave the room as quickly as possible. And there you’re left, pissing alone, surrounded by the stench of another man’s piss.