Tuesday, 29 July 2014

Like razors in my heart

I put my hand on his shoulder, a half pat, half squeeze pathetically fell from my fingers. I didn't know what else to do, where to look, what to say. I could barely look at him, laying in that hospital bed, as white as the sheets that rigidly wrapped around him. The life force seemed to have been drained out of him from the cuts on his forearms. All the colour. All the energy. The sadness. The misery. It had all wept out of the wounds on his wrists.

I coughed slightly, looking out the window at the sky beyond. There was a puff of cloud in the distance. I focused on that, making my eyes bat quicker to force back the tears that were pooling against my eyelids. What help was I, being here, when I didn't know what to say. When I couldn't tell him how I felt. When I couldn't even show him my face. Why was I the one still scared? All he wanted was someone to care, and I was too ashamed to shed a single tear.

"I.... I love...." I began, my voice trailing off.

"I love this time of day." I finally said.

Catamenia of nine tails

"Hello," she said as she reached the front of the line and came face to face with the teller. "My phone is broken."

"Broken?" he repeated. "Okay, well what exactly is wrong?"

"It no longer works. I keep making calls but no one picks up."

"Okay, so is it that the caller is picking up and you can't hear them? Can they hear you?"

"I've no idea. I make a call, and no one is there."

"Well, who are you trying to call, would you like to try calling my phone so we can see...?"

"No... my phone only calls God."


"Yes. But he's not picking up, my phone must be broken. He used to pick up every time I phoned. But lately he hasn't picked up at all. And you see, I really need him to pick up this time. I really need his help."

Saturday, 26 July 2014

Lover's Leap

The long ash blonde hair that tumbled around her fair delicate face was all crimped and messy.  She tossed her mane to the side as she gave me a tender glance. This creature glowed with some ethereal light and embodied the concept (my concept) of faerie: A curious innocence, frolicsome, mischievous and unfathomable. A creature to protect from the taint of man. Of men like me.

A wraith, slight and clad in faded torn denim, she leaned forward with intent. Her spiced scent (vanilla, cinnamon...nutmeg) impressed upon my senses and the breath caught in my throat. She was so close I thought if I just bit into her neck she'd taste like chai.

I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. My throat so decidedly constricted that everything churned and heaved in my chest. Air, words, vomit...all trapped forever. I might just die in those sea green eyes. I think I'd prefer it than steal from her what shone so brightly-the thing that caught me, the thing I will eventually devour.

She touched her lips to my cheek and the breath shuddered from my lungs at last. I said nothing. Did nothing. Stricken and aching. A car rolled up behind us the top 40 in full swing and good old Rev Jon telling us to "Keep the Faith" but love required a faith I could never muster.

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

"He died like everyone dies. A failure, desperate for another breath."

A thousand prickling stings at the back of your eyeballs. On the verge of tears or sneezing. Your mind flows, barely conscious. It rides whatever beat is ringing in the background. Your body remains inert. Trapped.

The pit of your stomach slowly grinds against itself.

"Every day it tears my heart," he said. "Every single day."

He wasn't known for being anything but impartial. Certainly not emotional. We sat in silence, our lips were pursed and our eyebrows furrowed together in sympathetic vexation. Our eyes had long since drifted to the floor, unable to meet his gaze. Here was a classically masculine man, a father, a grandfather, laying his soul bare like never before. We shifted uncomfortably.

Faith in the Father

My dad was the smartest dude in the world, when I was a kid.
He was a builder that could make and fix things. He was a mathematician that could solve complex problems in his head. He was a surgeon, extracting splinters from my hands and feet. He knew everything. He could do anything.

And he never had to go to church.

My mum would have us dressed up in our itchy church clothes every Saturday (because it was one of those churches), and Dad stayed home. If we asked why we had to go to church and Dad didn't; “I'll tell you when you're older”.

I was 12 or 13 when my mum decided that theological pursuits were my own decision to make.
My transition from reluctant church-goer to enthusiastic atheist was swift and permanent, and I quickly realised why my father refused to attend for so many years.
After all, he was the smartest dude in the world, and that science > religion is surely the only logical conclusion that a smart dude can come to.

I was 30 before we ever discussed it again. We didn't need to. We had individually come to the same conclusion; the pair of us, smart dudes.

I approached him for some advice, on raising kids with a co-parent that has what I would consider some pretty outlandish opinions on the subject.

“Dad, how did you convince Mum that I was old enough to decide for myself? You must have disagreed on a few things? How did you handle it? What would you do differently?”

His response was as out of the blue, and devastating, as a 40 day/night, planet-flooding storm must have been to all but a dozen odd humans and 2 of each animal.

“My greatest regret in life, is that I never instilled in you kids, the same passion for your relationship with God, that I had”.


“I never went to church because of the way they taint the true word of God. If I could do anything differently, it would be that. It would be teaching you about loving God.”

My dad was the smartest dude in the world, way back when I was a kid.

Tuesday, 15 July 2014

And the words will come to me

I bit into a stale biscuit. Wrapped my lips around it, allowing it to crumble down the inside of my teeth. It filled my mouth with a spray of vaguely buttery dust. It struck me that my life was as bland as this biscuit. If my life was a biscuit, it would be this one: stale, crumbling, not rich or with any sense of depth, not something you craved more of.

My sister had given me four crystal beer steins for my 21st birthday. I was almost forty now, and I was still yet to use all four. One or two remained pathetically in their original paper wrapping. I'd had no occasion necessitating their unbinding. No more visitors at any one time than one or two. They sat in my cupboard collecting a vaguely bitter dust.

Tuesday, 8 July 2014

The big easy

The name's Kiora-Dee,
I'll fuck you for free
Then talk about coffee
And write shit poetry

Coz mum hardly loved me
As much as she loved being free
And burning bras with glee
And doping up in pregnancy...

Whilst she was pregs with me
She was always off her tree
If you tested her pee
It was ninety per cent purity

My brain, you might agree,
Is about the size of a pea,
And all that's going for me,
Is the size of my titties.

The way skin strings itself around skinny fingers.

Your life is always leading its way to places you don't want to go. Situations you don't want to be in. Feelings you don't want to experience. A mist of fear curls around the pit of your stomach and gnaws at you. It gnaws at you. And gnaws at you. Until you sing:

No no no,
Just let me go
Just let me go

No no no,
I don't want to know,
Just let me go,

No no no,
I don't want to know,
I just want to go,


Thursday, 3 July 2014

Fee's Furious Fistings

I was too fat for fucking.

The boy's used to laugh when I hit on them. Most would pull a ridiculous face as if they couldn't tell if I was joking. Although I came close once. I promised him everything he wanted. He was giving me the first few digits of his phone number when his mate piped up "you think your banana would be enough to satisfy a whale?" They both burst out laughing and walked away.

I was too fat for true love.

I had to work hard just to get a date, let alone a relationship. I tried internet dating but everyone could tell. My words dripped with fat girl desperation. I probably mentioned my budgie too much. Guys wouldn't even send me pictures of their dicks. I had to meekly agree whenever my female friends discussed internet dating; agree that guys were pigs and sent pics of their dicks to everyone with a pulse.

Everyone. Everyone except me.

But what would I do with a dick anyway? I was far too fat for fucking.

That's when I discovered fisting. A banana might not be enough to satisfy a whale but a forearm sure was.

When you're fat, doctor visits are the norm. They're always checking this pain or that. Eventually they have arms up you or down you feeling around for lumps and what have you. I worked out the right combination of fake ailments to convince them to start rooting around inside me with their whole hand. Went from doctor to doctor. It was my sexual renaissance. They touched me in ways I'd never been touched, and never could do to myself. I imagine it was also much cheaper than gigolos.

Once they had their hand in there I'd clamp down. My pelvic floor muscles were like rusty vice grips. My cunt held on for grim life as the doctor thrashed around to free themselves.

Once my legs were up in those stirrups, my cunt became the stone. The doctor's cold hand became excalibur, unable to be prised from my inviolable grip. No one would be crowned king until I came and forcibly ejected the hand myself in waves of muscular spasms.

Sometimes with my legs up I imagined my large body was a spaceship, rudderless, flapping through space without direction. Then came the steering shaft, inserted into my body, guiding me from side to side. I allowed it to think it was gently steering me, lulled it into a false sense of security. Before biting back. Before gobbling up greedily more than my fair share. Wrist watch and all. And then holding on like a bucking bronco, veering from port to starboard.

Sometimes I'd yell... "Doctor, doctor!" I'd cry, and they'd think it was all a misunderstanding, that my body was in unintentional spasms, and that I wasn't pretending to be the TARDIS swallowing up an entire human. "Doctor, doctor, navigation systems: offline, time-wimey device: looking sloppy, all five companions: feared drowned!"

You're never too fat for fisting.

When the inside hurts and the heart wants to burst

She was selling flowers in the rain. Her red heart beating on the outside of her chest, sending ripples through the grey. The zombies walked on by, immune. Scraping their feet around her. Jostling against her and tipping drops from their umbrellas upon her. The braces around her legs rattled, as she turned to approach each one with the same weary smile. "Flowers, would you like so....Flowers, tulips and roses for your sweetheart.... Sir, flowers..." A drop of colour drowning in the ebb and flow of black and white.

She liked working in the rain. No one could tell she was crying.