Life

IX: Scrawl

VIII: Scrawl

 

Found scrawlings from inside my grey and dying mind.

 

NOTHING IS ISOLATED.
EVERYTHING IS CONNECTED.
WHETHER BY A SINGLE MUSICAL NOTE, ECHOED CEASELESSLY AROUND THE SEALED CHAMBER WHICH IS THE VOID ALL THINGS EXIST IN.

 

WHETHER IN HARMONY

OR OUT OF BALANCE

WHETHER SEEMINGLY ALONE

OR WITH KNOWN ALLEGIANCES

ALL THINGS ARE CONNECTED.

 

A NAME. PERHAPS.
A NUMBER, OR A NAME, OR AN IDENTITY, OR A FACE.
DO NOT FORGET ANY SINGLE SHRED OF ANYTHING.
WALK BEHIND THE OLD MAN WITH THE STICK.
AND NOTICE. NOTICE THE FRAYED, DULL PLAID SCARF AROUND HIS NECK.
NOTICE THE TREAD OF HIS SHOES.
MENTALLY TRACE THE SHAPE OF HIS EYEBROWS IF HE TURNS TO LOOK AT YOU.
DON’T DISREGARD ANYTHING.
PARANOIA IS NO CURSE.

WHETHER IN HARMONY

OR OUT OF BALANCE

WHETHER SEEMINGLY ALONE

OR WITH KNOWN ALLEGIANCES

ALL THINGS ARE CONNECTED.

 

ESCAPING INTO A NOVEL IS NO LONGER A SEEMINGLY PEACEFUL BUSINESS.
DO NOT TREAT FICTION AS NEVER-HAPPENED OR NEVER-WILL-HAPPEN.
EVERYTHING IN THIS VOID IS CONNECTED AND NOTHING IS SEPARATE.
SOMEWHERE, STORIES LINK TO LIFE, LINK TO STORIES, LINK TO FURTHER STORIES, LINK TO FURTHER LIFE.
NOTE ANYTHING. RELATIONSHIPS THAT CHANGE. TREAT THEM ALL AS PEOPLE, EVERY CHARACTER, ANIMAL, OBJECT. REMEMBER THEY EXIST.
EVEN IF THEY’RE CHARACTERLESS CHARACTERS.
EVERYTHING LINKS.

WHETHER IN HARMONY

OR OUT OF BALANCE

WHETHER SEEMINGLY ALONE

OR WITH KNOWN ALLEGIANCES

ALL THINGS ARE CONNECTED.

 

WHETHER IT BE A CIRCUS PERFORMER WHO SCREAMS EVERY FIFTH WORD.
OR AN IMPOSSIBLE BEING THAT CONTORTS AND VANISHES.
OR A PERSON SOLELY ALIVE TO AID HIS SISTER BY DESTROYING EVERYTHING.
OR A DOOR THAT LEADS INTO A ROOM YOU WON’T LEAVE ALIVE.
EVERYTHING IS TRUE. ALL THINGS ARE CONNECTED. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS

FICTION.

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Sitting at the Train Platform

Sitting at the train platform,
You’ve been there a while, waiting on
your two-way route to your mundane
and everyday location, just as
you do every day. With your mind on

Other things. Less than looking forward to the
nine hours of screen-staring, paper shuffling,
staring at the brunette you are too cowardly
to ask out for coffee. But today could be
the day for it. You take a peek at your

Watch. Then look towards the clock,
Unable to believe it’s been only two
minutes since you last looked. And yet
there are more people crowded around
you than you’ve seen so far today.

Businessmen in ties, shoes polished and
hair smoothed to perfection, giving the
sad impression they practice this every
single day, a faint belief that this is the day
their boss will recognise their achievements.

A cluster of young women, up early for a
day trip, mascara smudged over remnants
of sleep in the corners of their eyes. They
do their best to laugh despite having not seen
each other for months, though they promised to.

Train station labourers, brooms welded to their
hands, sweeping up the memories of yesterday’s
traingoers. Cigarette butts from under the
benches, a discarded aluminium can, and perhaps
a smudged napkin, all to earn their wages.

The newly-muddied shoes of a to-be-teen,
standing just far away from his mother to have
autonomy in this new place. Hair spiked to
a rebellious extent, ignoring his mother’s command
to step away from the yellow threshold.

And one man closer to the threshold than he,
his hands empty and clenched slightly, you
notice the solid way he holds himself, as if
ice has crept into his skin and frozen him in
place, a human-coloured statue on the platform.

Sitting at the train platform,
You once again check your watch,
Seeing that steady rhythm of the second
hand slicing your life away, one fragment at
a time. But you still have the day to do.

A rumble beneath your feet,
Gives away the surprise of the approaching
train. You know you can sit for a while longer,
Until everyone evacuates the sliding metal
jaws of the slick and powerful monster.

You see the businessmen adjust their shoulders.
You see the women’s hair catherine-wheel around their jaws.
You see the rebellious boy obey and step away from the gap.
You see the labourers glance up slightly, an act of respect.
You lean forward in your seat, ready to begin your day.

Your eye falls once again on the frozen man. His
elbows pinned to his waist, his head only slightly
tilted, and he is looking at the train. You lose
sight of him briefly, an old woman moving past you
to sit on your left. You nod slightly before rising.

There, again, but he’s moved. Forwards,
Ignoring direct orders to move away. And there is
a clearing around him, nothing too obvious, perhaps
only deep in their minds the waiters realise this
frozen man is not their kin, not their relation.

Nor is he yours. While you wait on the platform,
And scour the surroundings of the platform,
As you do every day, and you watch the clock,
And clock time on your watch, and tap your fingers
On your knee if the train is late, he does not.

While you wait impatiently to begin your day,
Knowing the brunette will pass by you several times,
With you uttering no words of desire to her,
You at least know there will be another lunchtime,
Another work day, another opportunity.

Another day after today. A day, perhaps, where you will
wait in for furniture that won’t be delivered until the next
day. A day, perhaps, where the tracks of the bin
lorry will wake you early, and you hope they’ve emptied the bin
this week. A day, perhaps, but a day, certainly.

But the frozen man is not of your kin either. While you blend
with each other type of toe-tapper on the platform, he blends
with no one. He stands in his clearing, stark, alone,
With the heels of his shoes on the yellow threshold,
Waiting for the rumbling wheels of the train.

No destination will consume him. No tempting relish
of a mate will attract his gaze. No plans has he made for
lunchtime, or any lunchtimes after. This is the only time
you will ever see him. No yesterday. Only today. No tomorrow
when you will once again be sitting at the train platform.

I: Sad

The anomalies hit me much faster than I was ever used to. Instead of arising from sleep with a head filled with sand and a crick in my neck, feeling stiff as a twig, I instead found myself unable to shut off vision as soon as it returned to me. Eyes glistening with the many miles of stars stretched far above me, and I took in the light string by string. As I noticed each star and counted each moving flashing light high within the twilight velvet sky, I noticed the second anomaly. Although my nose has always been damaged, a defect of my creation, even it picked up the scent of blood on the wind. Air carried it through me, into my mouth where it soaked into the back of my tongue, within my sand-filled head. A heightened state of awareness, perhaps caused by the rush of adrenaline as the iron liquid filled me. And gripping grass between each one of my slender fingers, so tight the muscles could break the slim bones at any moment. I am alert and ready for a sound.

A sound, within the still night. This is calmly normal for me; I expect no noise at the best of times, lying out here in the secluded brush of the landscape. Every insect footstep on every leaf of every tree, nothing would be lost upon me. My ears, hidden though they are, sense the very smallest sounds. Especially now in the silence. My mind struggles so much to determine whether anything I hear is a product of the world or my own imagination. Is the creaking from my bones, or from elsewhere?

I hold myself steady. A third anomaly has become apparent. Shadows, so thin I almost missed them, reach across my body. And the places the shadows flee from is a stunning silvery blue. My own shadow darkens the grass as the light, lethargic, but with intention, moves closer to me. Slow strides, almost completely silent, I realize are coming from the world and not my head. Without a movement nor a sound, I lock myself completely onto the light and the noise. Friend. Foe. Or Neutral?

It will take me less than a second to scatter myself away from the noise if it is cruel. I will scamper, and I will fight. Beside my right hand, my fingers numb to its feel, is my companion. The two sticks, a cross on the grass, and strings confining it. When I touch it, it talks for me. If I cannot tell what the intentions of the noise are, I will let it know I live, that I am in its way.

The light is so close now, so bright and reflecting off my eyes, I can barely see the stars. What was once a sequined cloth crafted by a godly hand, laid over the resting world has become a void, the only shimmering light the one scattering warmth onto the side of my face. This in itself is strange as the night never promises comfort. The night is calm and quiet, but with that comes the frigid temperatures of a world without life, and that world is getting colder. To feel warmth now is close enough to blasphemy that it almost angers me. My fingers silently pull my companion’s sticks into my palm. I grip them – I feel the connection between us form instantly almost feel a heartbeat through the sticks that pulses with mine. A heart that pumps through grey stuffing, but a heart that beats nevertheless. Its mouth is mine, and it will speak for me.

With the light that approaches, I notice our shadows. Mine and my companion’s. There I am, stretched tight on the grass, a shocking darkness against the white light that seems to come straight down from the sky. And the mound beside my shadow is my companion’s. Joined at the hip, we are congealed into a singular mass, so strong with ourselves and our hearts so combined it knows what I need to say, and what I want to hear. Its shadow stretches into mine, and mine into its, a combination borne of the shyness of the light. And a sharp outline of the sticks, raised a little way above our bodies. Rubbed smooth by my fingers over years of attention and necessity. Indents, catches and marks are the scars of our time together, from where my anger was too great, from where I dropped my companion in the brambles once too often. Similar, the stitchings on its body. Thorns tear thought cloth, through the polka dot blue fabric I used to patch the previous hole to reveal the same one, where stuffing will be pushed out by the aching heart within its chest. And that heart aches with mine.

The fabric is even more illuminated by the light approaching us, and I have still not moved. I have not judged whether this stranger is a friend or foe yet. Or Neutral. I have merely stayed completely still, a cat trying to hide in its own darkness. Trying to decide whether to run or to stay resting. To wonder if the light will try to touch me, or lie down next to me to hear my companion tell it all about the stars we will both be looking at. The stars I am currently lying under. The stars they are currently standing under.

I silently grip my companion’s sticks, as I hear the half-quiet rustling of the stranger halt just behind my head. I daren’t move, so I listen, and I look. My eyes readjust and I see the stars spark back to life, as well as notice the new life currently tilting their head down at me.

 

II: Sad

II: The True Freedom – Time [Lull]

I: The True Freedom – Memory [Lull]

 

The innocent and the beautiful
Have no enemy but time…

-W. B. Yeats

 

Terrible! – a terrible loss. Oh, each

passing day weighs down my figure,

And each falling grain from one teardrop of

the Hourglass to the other,

And each waltzing shadow distorting itself

on the face of the Sundail,

And each shallow breath she sighs that

counts the seconds out of reach,

All count – count towards our pure endlessness.

We must dispose of time.

 

This modern strictness, a concept intangible,

Is no more than a mere and incurable sickness,

Which no man tries to fight. Raising the

scalpel high, you remove the defective tissue,

But you do not move the defective time. This

walking corpse, this living carcass, do they

all fool themselves this way? Pretending that time,

In its terrible glory, is on their side, an ally.

Oh, rue this day, time. You shall not lay your gnarled

hand on my sister’s shoulder.

 

I lay mine.

Her breath is under my palm, and a singular second of

serenity enters. A calmness. A stillness. But not

for long. I will go, I will destroy time. No matter how

much I want time to catch me, for my sister, that elegance

hidden beneath the gas mask and funnel of hair,

Her face must remain china. Remain porcelain.

 

So tempt me. So hurt it. So hurt time, self, hurt it.

As it hurt me, as I destroyed all memory. Memory of her

little girl figure is merely an imagination. What colour

were her shoes? Memory – gone. Time – ruin it.

I travel within to the farthest reaches of the sun,

Over continents and oceans, never stepping through the shade,

Time must not pass. If I keep forcing myself, if I keep moving,

If I never stop and carry my sister though, we will never

change, she will never change, I will never

change. And serene blissful pastimes will be lost in imagination

as our memories fade every after-second. Without time, without

time, no seconds will pass.

Every stolen night will stand still.

Every figure,

Frozen,

In their own serene blissfulness, and perhaps,

When I ruin the destroyer of temples,

And burn the catcher of life,

And trap the conceited seasons behind,

I can smile, and smile genuinely,

when I look, for an unwritten eternity,

into my sister’s eyes.

 

III: The True Freedom – Need [Lull]

Deliverance [Candy]

Sir
Sir
Say, sir

The mistress sir.
She wants you, sir.

Bite, haul, but don’t touch
I’m on the porch

Let’s go sailing, look for Nessie
Why not? It’ll be fun.
She’ll come a-callin’
Caterwaulin’.
Giehl is outside
Giehl is inside
His colours his
Hair and robe been burned orange by flame.

but

He never told me
You don’t want me
But I do
I want you
you know me and
I
know
you

Madam answers phones deep sleep secretary
Piss on the door
She’ll get the message but
that’s not the message
you are trying to tell
me is it?

Deliverance.

Tie hand yawn for summer makes me sleepy
Reading twisted fiction in the early morning
Use your imaginations.
You make no sense.
Why not use your imaginations?
You’ll make all sense.

Imagery and
and symmetry
Lion mane
Sugar cane
Empty lane
in the rain.

Perfect for a
a
a corpse run in a death-romance twist-fiction.

Necrophilia’s hot
You are scared
I am       scared
You are writing my scars onto your arm.
I write my stories.
My originality.

My message in the watermark behind the page
in light grey
don’t read but stay on task.

Hide from the hidden,
and reveal the revealed,
and toss the falling,
and save the secure.
My twisted fiction comes to life now.
My message lives now
on all fours
to straighten up
to read
to live again something I felt long ago
to regurgitate life onto a page
this was six years ago.
This was six years ago.

And still,
holding,
my message
and its true meaning
washed from the watermark long ago.
And my message
lost from sight
and banished from my mind
will be forever forgotten in the turning gyre of life,
as it encircles
and closes
upon us.

I: The True Freedom – Memory [Lull]

My sister’s phonograph lies in the corner,

Untouched. Unused, worthless, beyond repair,

Yet she will not part with it. If I could, to break

my sister’s heart, I would move the ‘graph.

Needless and worthless clutter, a life unknown.

How the suffocation becomes worthless if glance at it too long.

The phonograph does not play,

It will never play,

But the memories, they’re fresher.

I am ultimate, a memory within her own,

If I was to wreck the ‘graph,

I’d pass right through.

 

So let’s be rid of the memories first,

A harsh tie from the real world,

To keep the escapism real,

To keep the escapism breathing,

To silence the outside. Only living

on the inside – yet, without the memory

of her anchoring phonograph,

Who will she be?

To erase, to love, to even kill, I’d be rid of all memory.

Silence myself in the deep fug of thought,

But with no memories to penetrate my world.

We will be rid of memories first.

 

Grasping hold, taking the corner of a

blank white page, to turn it,

I grasp the phonograph’s edges.

This is the first place to begin, as this memory

means nothing to me.

I raise myself, and sounds fall,

Out of the broken phonograph snout,

To make noise on the brick floor.

Are these part of the memory? To pick up and erase,

A dark part of myself. It means nothing.

I raise my sister’s phonograph,

Up high, as if I will put it away,

Lay it on a shelf for the memory to fade,

But I carry it through. My mind –

Loosened by the choice –

Feels lighter every step.

 

My sister’s phonograph no longer will keep

her own spirit tied. I have freed her into life.

Disposing of the long-ago object,

The feeling of a previous existence,

Plays harsh upon my hands.

The phonograph is getting heavier.

How? – the sound fell from its base,

The sound was never heavy. Yet

each step sharpens my memory,

To the point of hurting me. But

I must grip the phonograph tighter. The loss

of a life for the thrill of a memory,

The dull watercolour sweep or thought,

It lasts for a few seconds. There’s not

a world in her head. There’s not a world

in mine. There is only a huge gap,

Where our lives stopped.

 

The phonograph is weighing me down,

Each pace a dark gasp,

An expulsion of putrid memory from my

own selfish head. Mercy.

Deflate and dispose, phonograph, I am the reality.

A small piece, a slick oil-paint at best,

Instead of this airy watercolour,

That your memory provides. Shift the weight.

One hand, pressed upon, the other, pain,

Twinned with my sharpening memory.

Twisted agony again. But – I could stop,

I could stop walking,

Give into the memories of my sister,

Give into the memories of me,

And stop walking –

But to stop, to give up my life,

I will not waste my sister’s life. I will

free her. Piece by piece, pull this reality

apart and free her. And I will follow,

The walls gone, the freedom unchained,

But it has to start somewhere.

I pick up the phonograph again.

 

II: The True Freedom – Time [Lull]

Miscarriage

Simply an instance where Yestin got far too excited.
Simply an instance when he couldn’t help himself.
Simply an instance when he became hungry for its premature soul.

You may as well get rid of the body. It’s not as if it’s needed.
No soul, no birth. It’s that simple.

So don’t worry.
The baby, yours or whoever’s, they’re safe.
They’re fuelling him.
And therefore fuelling me.