Monday, 5 December 2011

Mostly the Numbers

Gracie found love, Lizzie had a baby, Sally bought a house and Chloe found a fiver. The numbers were good and the streets were foam, all angles removed, all edge consigned to memory.

There were others, of course, students awaiting a moment and then another, padding along the cushioned tarmac, oblivious to what had gone before. “Are those questions no longer there?” thought Sef from the vantage point of a coffee shop, a skinny cappuccino vapouring before her. A final piece of pain au chocolat, light on pastry, awaited the end of patience. It was a week since she’d killed. Auditions were not yet open though the students outside milled in expectation of a queue.

Her morning was consumed by Gracie’s joy, not shared exactly, more displayed. Sef knew her place. That was fine. She feigned comprehension. The boy was perfect apparently. The details were sketchy but Sef suspected that her initial inference, that he was without cock, was incorrect.

 The coffee shop was itself foam, with transparent foam for windows and foam seats into which she sank to her waist. Momentarily she panicked but rescued her handbag from between foam cushions. She checked inside for the sidearm and found first a photograph of a generic baby staring up at the camera like a stoned dog. She’d have to ask Sally again what its name and gender were to avoid awkwardness when Lizzie next appeared unannounced.

Sally’s new house was admittedly rather nice; a large unused cellar that would have been ideal and a garden of plots, rockeries and flowerbeds which appeared to have been designed by a class of ‘problem’ children. Not that Sally would get the most out of it. Its best features would be given over to their two cats whilst she and Steve sat too close to a television wall.

She realised that she’d caught the attention of one particular student who was now hanging around outside the window, throwing glances in her direction. He leant nonchalantly against the pane but the foam had more give than expected and he was almost horizontal before he pulled himself up. He made to rescue the situation by lighting a roll up but his Zippo was out of fuel. Perhaps auditions wouldn’t be required. No time unfortunately, she had to meet Chloe soon for a bottle of wine, something light and soft, and a goss.

Sunday, 4 December 2011

Approaching Entry Level.

"I checked my stats and found that I'd plateaued. Is there anything else to say? That's what my friend asked: Is there anything else to say? I'd synched my units, pain in the arse that is, but yeah, I'd plateaued. My other friend said: "Yes, of course there is. Dumbass."

Saturday, 3 December 2011

Penultimate Celebrated

"The important thing to remember is that none of this happened. It never did. Remember that.

I talk about Boris this and Jerome that and neighbourhood watches on village greens and cars smashing through pubs and a song, oh a song, of an alien in town and streets that shift at her very feet and shared spaces and artifacts out of place and young Sally and that man Whittaker, a piece of work, and Glen hiding, Whittaker and Glen, boy, and all those dinner plans we never completed because of, mainly, Jimmy the Speak. Yeah, Jimmy the Speak. I talk about Joanne and silence and missing years and century dates and gigs with friends and unvaried variables and people gone and people fake.

Maybe I'm wrong. I'm sure I am. None of this happened, that's not the point. I wasn't there and yet and yet times and places weren't there to forget that none of this happened, and yet it happened for me, for us. To that I cling." Abigail Aitrum, 1667, London.

Friday, 2 December 2011

Charlie's Balloon

Well my prince you have your ghosts
I know they circle in the night
And they taunt you with their history
And that history is your right
Yes, they whisper their achievements
in your ear while you sleep
you're still dreaming of that greatness
pray the lord your rule decrees
But it doesn't seem he's listening
or at least they drown you out to you their
voices they are growing.
They grow ruthless as they howl.
But one day he's sure to grant you
What is rightfully yours and then you'll
Have your chance to show them all
their weaknesses and flaws.
But here the doubt it creeps in
those times they might have passed
You want a shot at greatness but
You might not get a chance.
You want a shot at greatness but
You might not get a chance.
You want a shot at greatness but
You might not get a chance.

Thursday, 1 December 2011

Taken for Famous

"Each nostril a waterfall, each ear bubblewrapped
I sit in the square, a feature, a novelty, a fountain collapsed.
Well what was commissioned may not have been this.
They wanted a totem of a town in bliss.

The people they mutter, they point and stare,
An occasional photograph, I feign 'unaware'.
I wish that the artist would turn off the hose
And let me return to the steps for my clothes."

'Municipal Fountain' by Stuart Bat (1977)