Month: December 2015

Daddy, Underground

The long-legged man who would stand above me,
I had to look up.
I was weightless, picked up easily,
And walked upside-down on the ceiling.

No fear of spiders, flies or bugs,
He could sort them all with card and a cup,
The ones in the corners, far too high,
I had to look up.
His long legs made it easy.

A guru of all, if only you asked,
He’d keep his knowledge inside his head,
Languages, recipes, science, and more,
If only I’d asked, he might have said.
I had to look up.

I miss it, him,
The height, the knowledge, the being around,
No one to catch the spiders now,
Not now he’s Daddy, underground.
I cannot look up.
I have to look down.

[Dedicated to Bruce William Kennedy]

IV: Can I Make It Snow on the Inside of My Heart?

My bones are heavy and my lips are dry. Even the feeling of my hair falling over my ears makes me want to scream; it is too heavy, too comforting, too nostalgic. I dislike nostalgia. Even the feeling of my hair reminds me of life and how everything was when we were alive.

I mean properly alive. I count myself as dead. Listen. The gentle lapse of the sun on the ground makes no sound and I cannot hear it. The soft slur of the wind under the ocean makes no sound and I cannot hear it. The racing rumble of the rattle of the rain in the Sahara makes no sound and I cannot hear it. I cannot hear anything. I cannot see anything. I cannot hurt anything else.

I have hurt you before, sweet dear. I have and I know I have. My incontrollable violent mood swings have hurt you. I was unresponsive towards you. Too calm on the outside. I was a shell. Empty and void of all feelings of affection towards you. When you walked off and talked for hours with other people, I sat staring and did not care. Shells have no emotions. Of course, the tiny bit of me that did care was withering and dying as I saw the only person in the world I loved talking to people that I hated. But, as a shell, I remained mute and deadpanned.

You drifted. You drifted away. Too far away for me to pull you back. I pretended to not care, but, again, I did. In my good moods, I tried to make amends, to build bridges and to fasten an emotional rope around you in order to pull you back into my arms. But whenever I touched you, I only felt the shudder than ran through your conscious, nothing else. I felt ecstatic and electric, but you shuddered. I felt it, my dear. Do not lie. I have lied in my past, but never lie to me. It will only hurt me more.

Why should you care if I am hurting? Nobody cares. I care for my emotions, my fragility so rattled it could crash and break at any moment. My shell has thinned. Emotional erosion has rubbed away at me for so long. My outer shell has become dull and colourless and my inside is more exposed than ever. A portrait of you I kept in my head has not changed. Or, at least, I thought it had not changed. Apparently, the colours have run and the beautiful face I used to envisage has been replaced by a face that could easily represent the Devil’s.

I don’t want to hate you, but I find myself doing so. A young couple could break up, a mutual agreement making most of the decision, then the pair would find themselves wondering what they thought about the other person. The more submissive would undoubtedly keep their feelings on the outside, like a force field, a melancholy expression plastered onto their face. Some people might call it attention seeking. But me? I believe that a submissive will think. A submissive will think so much, they will be unable to keep the sadness to themselves.

A dominant will do it the other way. They will keep their feelings inside, a spring in their step and a grin on their face. They will appear to not care about their breakup. They may be a little bit more sensitive towards their ex-other-half, or they may not be. They might stay single for a couple of days, then the submissive’s heart would be wrenched even more as they saw their ex-other-half with their arms around someone else. Two days after their breakup.

Of course, I am taking this from my own experiences. It is what you did to me, as you were the dominant. You had me at every beck and call. Not anymore, sweetheart. Not anymore. I am a free person. A free spirit. Free in every sense of the word. Free from the restraints that hold me back. Breathing. Life. Sadness. Joy. Tears. Heartbeats. I do not need to feel them anymore.

I am free and the only one who will get their arms around me will be the waves. The waves will never leave me. The waves will only hug and hug tighter as I plunge downwards. You knew. You knew I wanted, when I died, to be thrown in the sea. From an early age, I wanted that. Twisted dreams, maybe. But the ocean is my friend. The ocean is my companion. The ocean is my rock.

Pick me up.

Take me there.

Drop me down.

Don’t stay to watch as I sink. You cannot. You chose the cold, grey sod over the aquamarine waters. You will feed the worms while I will feed the living fossils ten miles down. You will rot underground while I will lie preserved forever on the seabed.

And I intend to.

II: Moral Hate Circus

I: Moral Hate Circus

We have a show tonight. It will be an almost-full house. According to Ira, only thirteen tickets had not been sold. He went out earlier, trying to sell them to stragglers, hungry for a good night, but people rarely buy tickets off strange men for shows they had never heard of before.

If he doesn’t sell them now, he’ll attempt to sell them later, on the door. We rarely sell tickets like that, but sometimes we do manage to squeeze an odd ticket out, onto a middle-aged woman with a young child that she assumed she could bring along without its own ticket.


One ticket per head.

A young child has a head.

Fine, if you’re bringing in a chunk of meat with no head. You don’t have to buy a ticket for that.

But for a child, you do.

Dead pig? Buy a ticket.

Beheaded dead pig?

Come on in, come on in.


Ira has come back. As predicted, he went out with thirteen tickets, and came back with thirteen. Still, could be worse.

He could have come back with fourteen.

Ira’s other jobs are the lights. And music. Ema directs the light and music, but she doesn’t actually make it happen.

That’s just what a director is.

Tells us to do stuff.

Doesn’t actually do anything.


Pure laziness.

Ema’s lazy.

We aren’t.

We’re the stage.


Our performance tonight will be the best one yet. That’s how we all think. Practice makes perfect, yes?

The Speaker’s topic tonight: abortion.

Quite controversial, in some ways.


And parenting.

Parents or to-be parents will, no doubt, become furious.

Before we’ve even started the circus.

Hopefully the mothers will let the Speaker get to the crux of the matter before they swarm the stage, milk-filled, oversized breasts bouncing in anger.

No matter what they call me, I’m certainly not a pornographer. Apparently I make things ‘creepy’.

Doubler’s magazines.

He won’t read them.

Apparently I made them ‘creepy’.


Said the wrong thing.

Acted wrong.

Did the wrong thing.

Made too much noise.

He told me to leave.

I left. Still rambling about flesh.

‘Creepy’, apparently.

He can talk.

He has a fetish, after all.


Who has a fetish? And sex? And magazines?

What is the reason?


Two minutes.

Ira’s outside, ushering in our anxious audience.

One minute.

I arrive on the wings. Late.

Thirty seconds.

Audience settles, curious to find out what this night will entail.

Ten seconds.

I pull on a velvet suit jacket and Ema adds a puff or two of powder to my face.

Two seconds.

Ira comes in, securing the big wooden door of our venue behind him.

One second.

The lights dim.



Two spotlights give out glaring light from their open maws, and it shines down on me.

-I am the Screamer and I will be your host for this evening.

They seem relatively happy. Or, I think they do. I can’t see. Their bobbing heads are much too dark, and the spotlights are much too bright. I stare straight ahead into the abyss that some call the ‘middle distance’.

-It was an almost full house tonight. Minus thirteen. Thirteen people who could have been here are missing out on what you are about to see. There is a reason we only hold the show for one night.

I have to pause here.

I felt a scream rising.

-I guess you could call us controversial.



-But that is what we are. No doubt we are opinionated. We share with you tonight SPEECH you will never hear again… We asked you to supply your own HOT-BLOODED ATTITUDE. Please, attempt to SUPRESS… it…

I see their faces.

They look confused.

I tried to hold in my screams.

I take a minute – exactly a minute – before I speak again.

-Please. Are you waiting for a good night? I trust the topic of tonight’s speech wasn’t DISCLOSED TO YOU on arrival? No. Tonight’s speech is important. Open your ears. Shut your mouths. Those with young children, stop tending to them for an hour. You, in particular, need to hear this.

-Those with fag on their breath, alcohol staining their tongues, you need to take a minute. Get a grip on REALITY because who in their right mind would ever chose fags and alcohol over the SPEAKER, unless they were somehow deranged…

I pause, having realized I have gone completely off topic.

I walk.

Across the stage.

-You must listen. If not to me, to the Speaker. He has your answers. He has your questions. Sir, with the beer there, please put down your plastic cup and pay attention. You don’t look particularly involved.

I look around at him. He stares up at me.

-What are you drinking? Give it to me to sniff.

He does.

I tip it out on stage.

He protests.

I drink in the scent of the beer through my nostrils.

-Ah. Caramel.

I ignore him, stepping right in the puddle of beer. Then I walk back across stage.

Beer footprints following.

-Please, sir. You have a good taste in beer.

They’re not impressed with me.

-Sir, shut up, you’re ruining the SHOW FOR everyone else. The Speaker will come out and YOU will ruin his whole LINE UP and life. Refrain from speaking. I point at him. Stare.

He shuts his face.

-No refunds! I remind them quickly. -Please welcome the MORAL HATE CIRCUS’ Speaker to the stage!

I skip across to the other side of the stage, through the beer puddle.

The Screamer, exeunt.


The Speaker. Speaks.

I can hear him from my little area.

We don’t have dressing rooms. Are you kidding?

I have a camping chair.

Only the very best here at the Moral Hate Circus.

I am curled up on it. Suit jacket on the ground. With a cup of water.

Ema always makes sure that I, in particular, am hydrated.

Doesn’t want me to hurt my throat. I like her that way.

Cares for my selling point rather than me.

What a lovely gal.

I am not allowed to speak whilst I am backstage.

In case I scream and disturb the Speaker. It has happened before.

Didn’t end well.

Someone called the police. We had to go outside in the rain, explain to them that I, as the Screamer, screamed accidentally.

They did not buy it, so I changed my expression.

Looked sheepish.

Told them Ema and Ira were tickling me and I begged them to stop. Screamed for them to stop.

Apparently, that is more plausible.



Camping chair.

My camping chair.

I am sitting.

I pay no attention to the Speaker’s words. I have heard them at the rehearsal.

I don’t need to hear them again, really.

I don’t abort.

Abortions. Abort!


My water’s gone.

I get up, to find Ema. I cannot speak.

Have to get around by miming a megaphone, asking where she is.

The A’Lonz say they saw her earlier, going out to one of the tents.

I mime a thank you.

It is basically a bow.

They frown. But I walk off. Outside.

There are the tents.

Ema’s tent. It’s big and heavy and gets really hot in summer.

I go in, looking.

She isn’t there.

I go around the rest of the tents.

Then I call for her. I am growing anxious.

Where is Ema?

Maybe if I look for Ira?


He’ll be dilling around with the lights.


A person, female by her chest, silhouetted against the half-light of evening.

I move.

Towards her.

But then I see it isn’t Ema. Oh, no. Ema’s not got red hair.

Immediately, I begin to perspire.

Why, I am not sure.

She looks lost. Keeps turning in tight circles.

Long red hair twirling after her like a child. Or a lover.

I must offer her help.

I abandon the plastic cup on the grass.


She’s taller than me. By a couple of inches.

Was not ready for that.

I stand behind her, wondering. What do I do next?

Announce my presence?

I am the Screamer. That should not be too difficult.

Before I can, she turns.

Seems surprised.

-Oh, she says. -Hi.


-Sorry. I was—

-Sorry what?

-Huh? She is confused.



-Sorry. For interrupting you.

There is a beat.


-I don’t mean to trouble you, she says, -but where are the bathrooms? Do you know?

-No. I mean yes.

-You do?

-I mean, I know there is a lack. Of bathrooms.

She looks horrified. –No bathrooms?


-Then where do I… you know?

-Some nice moss. In the woods. Just there. I wave my hand in a vague direction.

-In the woods?

-Yes. I make sure I am talking in very short sentences. So I don’t scream in her face. –The woods.

She makes a face. It might be disgust. I am not sure.


-Or…? She looks hopeful. –Or what?

-There’s a portaloo.

-Oh, excellent. Where?

I look around. I spy it over by the A’Lonz’s tent.

A dark, upturned cuboid.

-There. You see.

-Uh, okay. Can I use it? Or is it, like, the… the company’s?

-Yes. And yes.

She looks confused. –It’s the company’s?

-Yes. We have never been CALLED a company beFORE. I have scared her. –Sorry. Can’t control it.

She looks positively terrified.

-You’ll be the first. To use it. The portaloo. We never have.

-What’ve you done when you need to… you know?

I blink at her slowly, -Some nice moss in those woods.

Disgust etches itself onto her porcelain face.

I thought she might recognise a joke. No? No?

Moves past me.

Wants privacy.

I call after her, -Have you seen a woman called Ema?

-Uh no, sorry.


Square one.

Or, square zero.

I haven’t even got a cup anymore.


III: Moral Hate Circus  IV: Moral Hate Circus  V: Moral Hate Circus  VI: Moral Hate Circus
VII: Moral Hate Circus  VIII: Moral Hate Circus  IX: Moral Hate Circus  X: Moral Hate Circus (Final)

I: Moral Hate Circus

This is my Moral Hate Circus.

We hate with reason, hate with compassion, hate with conviction. Do you hate? Stupid question. Everyone hates. Who do you hate? What do you hate? What do you loathe beyond the point you ever thought you could loathe something? Hate enough to kill, set, destroy? Lock on, target. Point. Pull.

This is my Moral Hate Circus.

Welcome to my Moral Hate Circus.

What colour should we have the curtains this season?


The curtains are that colour of fresh, untrodden snow because it’s summer here. We dislike the current season. We always wish it was the opposite one. Summer is too hot so we surround ourselves with cold colours. Autumn is too windy so we surround ourselves with heavy curtains. Winter is too cold so we surround ourselves with hot colours. Spring is… well, spring is just unpredictable. So we pin horoscopes everywhere.

Not that we ever read them. No point. Who are we? Not some poxy fortune teller’s parlour. This is the Moral Hate Circus and we are the acts. We are only human. Or, at least, human enough. That is why we hate the season we live in at the moment. Human petty shit. At least it’s moral. The cold could kill us. The hot could kill us. The wind could kill us. The uncertainty of unpredictability could kill us.

Oh! We tried living underground for years but it didn’t suit us. We are only human enough to want, to need the sun on our faces!

Ah, the sun’s too hot. Retreat underground! Retreat! One of my less fortunate acts got sunburned because he went from one tent to the other. My God. Damn U.V. rays. I’ll ban them. When I’m Prime Minister. Ray-bans. That’s what I’ll call my policy.



Old-school sunglasses. I have some aviators. Or I did. My act stood on them as he came in, his skin peeling everywhere. He’d been in the sun for literally three seconds. He was in pain and he stumbled. Caught my sunglasses off a table with his elbow and crunched them into the sod with the heel of his shoe. He still owes me.

I never wore them.

But it’s the principle that counts.


One of my acts says he once saw a blimp.

I think my act was lying about seeing a blimp. Probably just getting cataracts. Blimp-shaped splodge on his eye. That’ll be it.

I wasn’t aware he had cataracts.

I’ll have to get rid of him. Find a new Heckler.

I’ll replace him. Do two stages. Oh, yes, I’m part of the piece. I am an act. I am not just the owner of the Moral Hate Circus, I am an act. I hate. I morally hate. I morally hate, in a circus. My skill? I can scream louder than anyone else in the world.

I can scream louder than a baby at birth.

I can scream louder than a howler monkey.

I can scream louder than a jet plane taking off.

I can scream louder than a thousand baby howler monkeys on a jet plane as it is taking off.

Guess my name.


I’m the Screamer.

The Screamer.


It’s cool. I scream.

All the time.


Most of the time.

Helps. I’m am erudite at my job, at my act. I am one of nine in the Moral Hate Circus. I own the thing, the circus, but we all look after it. I started it. I found eight talented people, all of whom I both love and hate simultaneously. I want to hug them but I want to squeeze the breath out of them. I want to kiss them but I want to bite out their tongues.

It’s hard in love and hate.

There’s me. The Screamer.

Then there’s the Speaker. He speaks.

Then there’re the A’Lonz Siblings, three of them, two guys and a girl. They act. They’re damn good at it.

Then there’s the Heckler. He heckles. We need heckles. It’s the only way we make the act work.

Then there’s the Doubler. His role isn’t so clear. He doubles the trouble. Heckler puts the pot on the stove, Doubler makes it boil.

How many is that? Seven. Seven in the act.

Two outside of the act.


The Director and Producer. Names, Ema Schopenhauer and Ira Schopenhauer. Ema directs. She’s hellish. If she doesn’t like something, it doesn’t go. On stage. Not in life. We can’t argue on stage. We argue in life. We’ve learned, all of us, to understand her over the years. Now we understand even if we put a foot half a centimetre out of line. Sometimes she doesn’t even talk. Just sits there scowling at us. Or smiling.

I prefer smiles.

It means we’re doing well.

Ema directs the show during practices. Of course we have to practice. We get a couple days to practice before the show.


Ira Schopenhauer.

Producer. Advertiser. Money raiser.

Con man.


Who else would buy tickets? £25 a head. I hear he’s still waiting for Siamese twins to turn up so he can charge them double.

We should put on a sale.

£25 a head, £45 if you have two heads.

It’s a deal. Steal.

Ira has to poster up adverts all over the town we’re circussing in. He doesn’t write ‘Moral Hate Circus’ on the poster though. He just writes ‘M.H.C.’ so it’s less clear.

It’s advertised as, “Entertainment through Speech.”

Such a circus!

No, the speaking isn’t the circus. It starts the circus.

“Controversial Conversations Covered – The M.H.C. Presents its Very Own Professional Public Speaker for One Night Only!”

“Tickets £25… refreshments supplied… please provide your own hot-blooded attitude.”

We do provide refreshments.

Warm beer.

Cocktail sausages.

We get complaints.

We don’t listen to them.

Hot-blooded attitude, that’s essential to our circus.

Oh, and we don’t provide refunds.

Read the small print. Always.

It’s on the back of the ticket.

In Swahili.

We do attract a crowd – mostly it’s people who like speeches and controversial issues. Hot-headed English Graduates. And people who like ‘only available now!’ deals.

Have to admit, I’m one of them.

Something rare. That’s why I’d pick up a record signed by someone I didn’t even know existed. Just because it’s that special one-of-a-kind thing. Pick up a boxing glove owned for nine years by some infamous boxer who’s sweated in it.

It’s mine! All mine.

I collect. I hoard. Eventually, people get sick of me hoarding and steal stuff. I don’t mind. I don’t care what they take – no idea what I’ve even got anymore.

I know the Heckler likes to take things. Shiny things.

He’s like a crow. Magpie.

Stupid idiot misplaced his trailer key because it was shiny. Put it in his secret stash of collectables. It’s a box behind the portaloo.

Everyone knows.

But no one uses the portaloo. Even the girls. Go squat in the trees over some moss, there’s a good lass.

Come to think of it, we only have two girls.


And Celile A’Lonz. Her name is pronounced Seh-lee-l.


It’s an odd one. I think it’s French.


Two girls.

We used to have a female Heckler. But we had to let her go.

Not sexism. She was just useless.

And she ate my food. My secret stash of food. She ate some. I let her go. Angrily, but carefully.

Didn’t have to pay her.

Gross misconduct.


You’re fired!

I win!


II: Moral Hate Circus  III: Moral Hate Circus  IV: Moral Hate Circus  V: Moral Hate Circus
VI: Moral Hate Circus  VII: Moral Hate Circus  VIII: Moral Hate Circus  IX: Moral Hate Circus
X: Moral Hate Circus (Final)

III: Can I Make It Snow on the Inside of my Heart?

I remember when I used to watch you from afar. Not physically far away, but emotionally. I was sick of other people making you smile. I wanted that to be my job and my job alone. But now it’s been almost three years… All skulls smile. All skulls give you a horrible grin as they stare at you with their eyes that are not there. I only bet yours does the same.

All I wanted was for you to notice me and me only. If I needed help, you would drop everything and rush to my aid. That was not your responsibility, though. That was mine, and you had me wrapped around your little toe. If you needed me, I would run to you. If you called for me, I would quit my conversation and appear by your side. If you asked after me on your deathbed, I would cross the ocean to get to you. But you never called me for the latter. You left, a whole emotional sea separating us, my only link to you an E-Mail address. I sent you thousands of E-Mails, but you never replied.

Each time, I tried to convince myself I didn’t care. It worked for three hours once. Then I awoke, beside a pond, where ducks and swans drifted past, uncaring for me. My body felt cold just then, even in the heat summer. I tried to cry. All my eyes were doing were making me feel like I was getting further and further away from the sky, until I was slipping through the earth completely, lower and lower. The dirt kissed me, something you never did. The dirt hugged me and filled my lungs that day, drowning me in a barrage of bittersweet memories. Images flashed across my mind as I fell, and I saw the sea and I saw the creatures and I saw the ending of the first era on earth. I feel the sea around me even now, forgiving me more than Jesus ever could.

Goodbye, my love. Goodbye, my girl.

My love is as deep and as pure as an angel drowning. Its body scattering across the sea bed, I would pick up not just the pieces of a broken heart, but of a broken life. I would recover myself to the surface and wade to the beach. I swim upwards now, through this thick mist of water to the rippling skin and breathe, cool, heavy air filling my lungs. My eyes unfocused and freezing, I paddle towards the shore, clutching the pieces of angel in my fists. I return home. I pick up the needle. I pick up the thread. I take one last look at the pieces before shutting my eyes, trusting my love for you, and sewing the pieces together.

The resultant figurine is nothing but a lifeless shape, its life ripped out and fragmented across every dimension possible, and I take it out of the house. I loop it under my arm, trying hard not to drop it. I lug it the seven miles to the resting place of souls, wheezing now, sweat drying out my body, and arrive at your grave. Take this! Take this dead angel! It represents you. You are my dead angel!

With words that linger in the air, twisting and tumbling before penetrating the ground with a bang that echoes in my ears, I leave. I walk the seven miles back home.


Two days pass and I still have the heavy water in my ears and lungs. I can breathe it and hear it. It lures me. I heave myself up, the water dragging my innards down. It is only five minutes for the average person to walk to that pond. It takes me fifteen. My draw to the pond is stronger than my draw to you has ever been, but I understand that, if I go, I will not be forever alone in this dank world. The bench we once sat at, joking and laughing, has its paint peeling. The swans form a circle for me in the water and I fall forward. I do not even cause a splash. I fall and twist in the air, melting into the water and integrating with it completely. I feel the heavy water returning to its rightful place as my lungs form a vacuum. I open my mouth and the heavy water is in my lungs again, dragging my body peacefully down to the bed. I welcome it as I welcome my own, and snuggle into the sand. Feeling leaves me as the water, once cold to the touch, wraps itself around me. My eyes close and my teeth feel like they are not there anymore. My tongue stops moving. My muscles stop twitching. My brain stops thinking.

I die.

II: Can I Make It Snow on the Inside of my Heart?

Another year has come, but it did not snow this year. Christmas went past, ignoring every person, every child, it is just a seasonal gimmick. Not worth my time, or anyone else’s time, although they make it their business to bring ‘happiness’ to their children. But who brings happiness to me? It might sound cynical, but that is okay. I simply want to know. My love, you would not bring happiness to me. Only the other morning, I visited you, and noticed your lie on your headstone. The day you died was the day before the date on the headstone.

That is no one’s lie but your own, dear. I visited you, read your name like I have done a hundred or more times before, while kneeling down to kiss the flowers. The flowers are dying again. Dead energy can leak into anything. Maybe that is why I spend what feels like forever in that cemetery. I must feed off the dead energy, like a vampire feeding off the pessimistic blood of a child on Boxing Day, as soon as they realize that they have to wait another 364 days for fun and freedom to come around again.

Their fun on the twenty-fifth is not transmitted to me. My fun comes from when I lie in the state of being half-awake and half-asleep, listening maybe to an album or to the radio when it plays those sad songs in the early hours of the morning, when the dew is fresh and inviting on my pale feet. Yes, my dear, I sleep outside, just like you, but, unlike you, I have no presence of warmth through the sod. I sleep outside the house, with the radio pointing at the window, so I can hear it if I strain. I discover new instruments when I am half-awake and half-asleep.

I used to lie totally awake, listening to you breathe beside me, but no more. Even if I was to sleep right on top of you now, almost certainly straining myself to not engage in the ungodly act of necrophilia, I would be unable to hear you breathe or even move.

You are probably little more than a skeleton in a pale dress now.

But still I would kiss you; I often told you I loved you to your very bones. Now I can mean it entirely and make it true. I would speak for you, move you, and push myself away from you, because I know that you would prefer it that way. I would give my life to let you live again. You would let me. For you do not care about me anymore. Not only because it is impossible for you to not care, but, if you were alive, you would not care.

But you are my sweet, malevolent snow angel. If it didn’t snow one year, like this year, you could turn up and make it snow. Maybe not physically.

But you could freeze me, break me, bend me, destroy me, hold me, push me, kiss me, bite me, kick me, bury me, maim me, torture me, gag me, bind me, bleed me, hug me, choke me, cuddle me, strangle me, twist me, scorch me, scald me, injure me, cut me, burn me, pull me, store me, delete me, spin me, punch me, drown me, suffocate me, hit me, poke me, tie me, kill me… but still I would love you.

I said I would love you until the day I die. That was, admittedly, a lie, however, I am not dead. And I mean it now more than ever. Only last week, I started writing you poems. I walked the seven miles to your grave and laid them there, my jittery handwriting a mess, and, every day after I put the poem on your grave, you would make it rain and wash off the ink from the paper.

Does my snow angel not want a poem? You don’t make it snow physically, I know that. But you make it snow on in my heart.

I: Can I Make It Snow on the Inside of my Heart?

Left to rot in the sun and the snow, both summer and autumn bring the same pain. An early snowstorm brings nothing but pain to me. Sometimes I walk and sometimes I sit on my own in the park. That’s where we used to sit. Now the benches are sheeted in frost and it glints at me. Your eyes used to glint. Imagine me when you are gone, yes? Because I miss you and I wish you were back here with me. I know you won’t come back. You would never choose to, and it is my fault. I’m the one who drove you to leaving, am I not? It is fine, my love. Rest. Rest with someone else. Rest in the grasp of the sweet earth, with its necrophilia and obsessive personality. For now your coffin will have been eaten through by the roots of death and, within that, your problems are solved. For me, though, of course, they remain. I am here to pick up the pieces of your world and your broken promises.

Don’t worry, my sweet. I will fulfil this unasked favour. The wood may have rotted, but my innermost feelings never die.

For I am your love and I will love you forever. Even if, every autumn, I have to sit alone and every summer I have to walk alone. I will travel the world, repaying your depts. With my feelings and my money, I will fix it. I don’t mind. You are worth it. You were worth it. And still, every day, I come back and I kiss your grave. I kiss your stones and I kiss your earth. I kiss your people and I kiss your house. I kiss your car and I kiss your flowers. I kiss my hand, the one you used to hold. I kiss the mirror. I pretend. It is never the same. It is okay. Go with whomever you want. I will always watch you and keep you warm and safe, even if you cannot feel it anymore.

Good-bye, ma cherie. Don’t worry about the lust and the deceit. I will pay it all off. You rest in the warm arms of heaven and sleep. Sleep forever. Sleep for months, years, centuries.


If it were summer, I could stop by the river and feed the swans. They mate for life, you know. When I was younger, I used to think that they mated for life, not for life. I thought that, if they didn’t mate, they died. That seems rather dark, but that was me. I always considered those things. It was me. It is me. I explained these things, and you understood. If I asked for something, you understood. If I told you not to touch me, you understood. Sometimes I think that you don’t want me touching your stone and resting place, so I leave you alone down there.


If you had been cremated, I could have slept with the ashes on my bedside table. I am not sure if you would have liked this, so I always would have asked. But you were not cremated. You wanted to be in the arms of the earth, lonely and cold. My heart is lonely and cold. So cold it could frost over, like the park benches. The swans’ feathers are not as white and pure as snow. Unlike you. You were whiter than swans. Whiter than pure. Purer than snow.

There is always a way

As a dedicated In-My-Own-Time writer, it wasn’t particularly easy to find people who were interested in reading my work. Apparently other things in life are more important. I disagree. Since when is creating a whole new world less important?
But I knew there was always a way for me to carry on creating and sharing my creations with other people. Enter this blog.
Right now, there is no kind of upload schedule planned. I am an In-My-Own-Time writer, so me writing something really entirely depends on my being able to write.
Still, there will of course be the words my brain comes up with on my blog, and I will of course update.
Be warned though! Do not expect another section of the same story to be uploaded all the time because I can get quite fickle about what I write. I could put up four sections of a story, and you begin to enjoy it, only for me to suddenly put up section one of something else.
If there’s a story you haven’t seen for a while that you want to see again, by all means tell me. I like having people to talk to. It’s likely I’ll get fired up to write that particular one again if I see that people are enjoying it.

Given what I have found myself writing at the moment, I can say that this blog will show stories or sections of stories that are all linked into the psychological and mental development or deterioration of people. In other words, insane or schizophrenic or depressed characters. I think one of them even has tourettes. If you’re at all into that, or want to write things similar to me, keep one eye on this blog. Who knows? I might inspire you.

Peace, cheers and new adventures, don’t forget to wish upon a blackstar.