When the rhythm calls the government falls Here come the cops
From Tokyo to Soweto viva la musica pop We are black & white
and we dance all night down at the hop and the letters were tall
on the Berlin Wall viva la musica pop so if you're feeling low
stuck in some bardo I, even I know the solution
love, music, wine and revolution love, love, love music, wine and revolution
This too shall pass so raise your glass to change and chance
and freedom is the only law shall we dance...
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Certain half deserted streets
Almost completely deserted, actually.
Just got back from Matter. It was... alright. The music was *fucking blinding*, the club was not actually as good as B2t in Birmingham or Bangface, most of the crowd were trendy wankers or rudeboys, and I had shitty pills that did nothing. However, I did see Chase & Status who were excellent despite having their stupid MC talking stupid incomprehensible shit into a microphone straight out of his stupid, self-assured face. I swear for the most part all he said was "widiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwoah-oh-ho, let's go", and occasionally paused to shout "Chase and Status" in increasingly ridiculous accents. "Cheehyus un stee-yah-tus". SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU STUPID PRICK. (I don't like MCs) Noisia were good too, as to be expected from old bangfacers. :) I thought Andy C was shit and boring as were most of the other acts. A few randoms in room 2 were wicked, Culture Shock was the best of them, played some stupidly hardcore neurofunk, I felt a bit like I was in World War 1, in a positive way. Wow that was a weird phrase.
Also - while I was on the bus to the O2, meant to be feeling excited and up for it, which I sort of was, I predominantly thought about jess dreamily. And when I met the girl I went with and her mates, supposed to be all sociable, which I sort of was, but I mostly thought about jess still. And when I was in the club, dancing about and whatnot, and when I was at the bus station talking to this big gang of guys, watching fights break out and talking to one about the racist character of the police, and when I was talking to a welsh bloke who'd had 2 grams of coke and a gram of speed taken off him, and a german tourist girl, and when I decided crazily to just walk home from Greenwich, literally a few towns away from home, and when I even more crazily made it, with a flawless route... still just thought about jess.
Being in love is weird, man. =p
Just got back from Matter. It was... alright. The music was *fucking blinding*, the club was not actually as good as B2t in Birmingham or Bangface, most of the crowd were trendy wankers or rudeboys, and I had shitty pills that did nothing. However, I did see Chase & Status who were excellent despite having their stupid MC talking stupid incomprehensible shit into a microphone straight out of his stupid, self-assured face. I swear for the most part all he said was "widiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwidiwoah-oh-ho, let's go", and occasionally paused to shout "Chase and Status" in increasingly ridiculous accents. "Cheehyus un stee-yah-tus". SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU STUPID PRICK. (I don't like MCs) Noisia were good too, as to be expected from old bangfacers. :) I thought Andy C was shit and boring as were most of the other acts. A few randoms in room 2 were wicked, Culture Shock was the best of them, played some stupidly hardcore neurofunk, I felt a bit like I was in World War 1, in a positive way. Wow that was a weird phrase.
Also - while I was on the bus to the O2, meant to be feeling excited and up for it, which I sort of was, I predominantly thought about jess dreamily. And when I met the girl I went with and her mates, supposed to be all sociable, which I sort of was, but I mostly thought about jess still. And when I was in the club, dancing about and whatnot, and when I was at the bus station talking to this big gang of guys, watching fights break out and talking to one about the racist character of the police, and when I was talking to a welsh bloke who'd had 2 grams of coke and a gram of speed taken off him, and a german tourist girl, and when I decided crazily to just walk home from Greenwich, literally a few towns away from home, and when I even more crazily made it, with a flawless route... still just thought about jess.
Being in love is weird, man. =p
- There is nothing like a big crowd of macho slick-haired morons determined not to smile at anyone to bring out the closet elitist in you
- There is nothing like a cheese and salad cream sandwich to replenish one's energy stores at 5 in the morning
- There's nothing like Jacob
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
One of my favourite poems ever.
I have no adequate interpretation of what is being communicated here, no sense of the poem's structure or the author's intentions, but it is... completely amazing. The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
John Winthrop, you fat fuckin' legend.
We must delight in each other, make others’ conditions our own, rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together, always having before our eyes our commission and community in the work, our community as members of the same body. - John Winthrop, 1630.
Possibly a nutter apart from this quote, but it's nice to remember that the past wasn't characterised by total idiots all of the time, and that this kind of idea is not new. :)
I know you're a recluse you know that's no excuse
Oh my actual days. A few days of learning, chilling out, christmas shopping and drinks at the hobgoblin.
And theeeeen.
A whole MONTH living at Molly and Jacob's house. :D I'll get to see them all the time. And all my friends all the time. And Jess. :) And it will be christmas. And we'll have whiskey and wine and hot food and it'll be cold outside and cosy inside and we'll play instruments and gorgeous music to eachother and get out of our little heads.
I'm literally laughing aloud at how happy this idea makes me.
And theeeeen.
A whole MONTH living at Molly and Jacob's house. :D I'll get to see them all the time. And all my friends all the time. And Jess. :) And it will be christmas. And we'll have whiskey and wine and hot food and it'll be cold outside and cosy inside and we'll play instruments and gorgeous music to eachother and get out of our little heads.
I'm literally laughing aloud at how happy this idea makes me.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
It's well your birthday soon
So I was thinking I might let you off maid duty for the day. If you're good. And you make me trifle. =p
<3
Me and Kie on Facebook Chat
Alex
You wake up, with a boner, in a bin filled with shit.
17:51Kieran
And you wank up the walls until, exhausted, you sink back into a delirious, dream filled sleep.
It's December! :D
That means it's literally practically christmas now. :D Time for warmth, cuddles, family, rampant sentimentalism, becoming significantly fatter, mulled wine, eggnog, pine needles, mince pies, rudolph and fuck it, it might even snow!
Get. Right. In.
Monday, 30 November 2009
Battered Accoustic
Here is my version.
One night in December the four of us came staggering back to my place, laughing and singing loud into the deep; as if we could, this time, chase despair away for good. We never had much food in my flat, but there was a battered old acoustic in the corner, a view from the loft window that could be used to see the stars on cloudless nights, and love on tap.
The door was stubborn, but eventually relented to a shoulder barge. This prompted a totally disproportionate cheer from the others. I grinned and shook my head as we shuffled in, shedding our wet winter coats and boots in the landing and talking happy nonsense. I turned the heating right up, and listened to the strangely comforting groans and complaints of the pipes. Sophie danced into the kitchen and began to pour everyone some wine. I watched as she stretched to reach the glasses, and her white tee-shirt rode up a little, revealing the perfect skin around her hips. Mike was at the computer and had put Radiohead on, and Lily was busy with powder and credit card on the coffee table.
I came up behind Sophie and hugged her, feeling her smile through her back. We stayed like that a little while… I closed my eyes. After some time she turned, still hugging, to face me, her forehead resting against mine.
“Let’s drink our wine, Jake”
I breathed a laugh, and we took our wine through to the other room, where Mike was laying stretched out on the floor, grinning at the ceiling, and Lily was sitting propped against the sofa, eyes up, sniffing and breathing out.
“What would we do without MDMA” she sighed.
We all giggled and looked knowingly at each other. Mike spoke from the floor.
“We would stay inside, you know… We would withdraw, and we’d be those petty little creatures that our parents all became, live the 9-5 and get excited when a special of fuckin’, the bill is on, or something.”
“So cynical, Mikey” Sophie purred.
“We’d do coke instead” I said. Everyone giggled again, and we each took turns to sniff a line of those magic crystals. Then we knocked it back with our wine.
I stretched out on the floor like Mike, breathing heavily to keep some control. I think everyone else did the same but I can’t be sure. I know the floor felt more comfortable than usual, and I knew I was in one of those rare spots where I wasn’t out of place. A brief moment of sanity, I thought, and smiled.
At some point all the lights went out.
A t s o m e p o i n t ... a l l o u r l i g h t s w e n t o u t .
The warm waves of Everything In Its Right Place washed over us, and we… simply flowed, with the tide. Problems couldn’t touch us. Not there. Not then. It was the Promised Land that our young minds craved to live in. The moon, the air and all the world gently tingled with attunement and approval, whispering reassurances in our ears, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.
It’s okay, I remembered.
I felt Sophie’s delicate fingertips touch mine and lightly rake along them. I reached for her hand and held it. After a minute or two, she rolled over to me and nuzzled my shoulder. We looked at each other with spaceship pupils, and smiled. I closed my eyes and listened to her contented sighs, wondering how I’d gotten to this beautiful point. After a while, I sat back up at the coffee table, with the idea of having more. Mike, Lily and Sophie all had the same idea, funnily enough. We chuckled.
“Addicts…” muttered Lily, grinning.
Mike hadn’t stopped smiling, and stretched out his big arms, pulling us all into a group hug. Our heads rested together. We stayed like that for a long time, nobody said anything. We swayed a little.
Sophie brushed her lips across my cheek, and then round to my face. Our lips were still but touching for a few seconds, and I held my breath. Then we kissed and kissed and kissed, sighing into each other’s mouths with relief. And then all of us were, Me, Sophie, Lily and Mike, heads turning to one another without discrimination or care as we pressed our lips together and ran our hands over each other, delirious and drunk on indeterminacy, consequences a faint memory in the flush of instinct and absence of fear.
What goes up must come down… The pedestrian hesitation of our interactions the next morning presented itself as it always does; a little jog back out of reality, a reminder that mental health is a temporary pleasure and nothing more. I didn’t care, though. I woke up cuddling Sophie underneath sleeping bags. And besides, we had touched the infinite, or nearly at least. Mike quietly played Blowin’ In The Wind on the acoustic in the corner as I cuddled closer for warmth and comfort, and though the world outside was bright grey and there was scarcely food for breakfast, we were at peace that day.
My copy of No.1 Fake arrived today
It was cooool. My flatmates read it, all liked my poem and it sparked off a general discussion about poetry and technique in art. Get in. :)
Today I got lost in Lewisham. Funny times. I asked some chavs for directions, they were actually compeltely polite and pointed me the right way.
Man... we actually have the most delicious takeaway pizza place near us. It's proper nice. I wolf their pizzas down in nooo time. Like I literally ate my whole pizza in a 2 minute walk to the library just now. That's good pizza.
Today I got lost in Lewisham. Funny times. I asked some chavs for directions, they were actually compeltely polite and pointed me the right way.
Man... we actually have the most delicious takeaway pizza place near us. It's proper nice. I wolf their pizzas down in nooo time. Like I literally ate my whole pizza in a 2 minute walk to the library just now. That's good pizza.
Sunday, 29 November 2009
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Edward and The Thieves Part 2.
Rory crumpled to the floor, spitting up blood and clutching his stomach. Keith stood still, eyes wide as they could go, as if their very widening would prevent further bloodshed. Edward stood quivering in the centre of the room, tranquil. Tears still snaking across the little trenches of his worn-out face. His eyes were closed, and it seemed for all the world to Keith that any minute now the wind from the kitchen window would sweep this poor old man away. Everything was quieter in the aftermath of the gun shot... In the distance, birds sang.
Fuck, thought Keith. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What now? I'm not prepared for this, for fuck's sake. I'm not a violent man. He nervously felt for the Animal Liberation Front badge by his breast pocket. 20 years in this cause... is this it? Is this little loopy loo with some antique shooter gonna finish me off? His heart raced. He thought about his family and, hating himself, let a few silent tears grizzle their way out from his veteran eyes.
Suddenly, Rory croaked "A...amm, muh, muh... ambulance"
Keith stared horrified at the blood-soaked American. So he's not dead. He reached for his mobile.
"I can't take that risk, I'm afraid" said Edward. The gun was trained on Keith.
Keith took a few shuddering breaths. "Edward, now, just... listen alright? It is Edward isn't it?"
No reply.
"Edward he's gonna die if we don't call an ambulance. Alright mate? You'll be a murderer. None of us want that."
No reply. Despite the horror of the situation, Keith felt a twinge of every-day frustration at the old man.
"Edward for fuck's sake!" Keith cried, voice cracking.
"No... no. We can't call him an ambulance. I've already shot him, that's jail time, and I don't rate his chances anyway. Now who the bloody hell are you people?"
What the fuck is going on. It really, really wasn't meant to be like this. Keith's hands shook.
"We're... we're animal liberation activists, Edward. Please let me call an ambulance, alright? Please."
Where is this old boy gettin' confidence. Jesus fuck I didn't sign up for this.
Edward's face switched from glaring anger to a contemptuous sneer. He gave a low chuckle.
Fucking LAUGHING?
"You mean to tell me that my home has been invaded by bleeding heart hippies? You mean to tell me that you are responsible for stealing that letter?"
Keith just stared.
"Well then. I shall dispose of you both in the river. I daresay you'll enjoy getting back to nature"
"You know what Edward? Fuck you, mate. Fuck you, you silly bourgeoisie cunt. It'll be an honour to die by Rory's side, fightin' against your fuckin' cruelty! And that daft old bitch is never gonna love you. In fact, I bet she thinks you're a tit."
Scarcely believing what he was doing, Keith walked towards Edward, arms outstretched, leaned his chest into the barrel of the gun and spat full into his face.
Edward had been struck momentarily rigid with rage, but on feeling Keith's spit slap into his cheek, snapped out of it.
"Well then. This is it. Get ready".
Keith thought about adopting a crucifix pose, emulating Jesus, but decided it was too pretentious. He mentally made vows of undying love for his family and his wife. He was ready. He braced himself for the bullet. In the distance, the birds sang.
And a car pulled up.
What?
"It's Margaret!" hissed Edward, scrabbling around frantically, gun cast aside.
Keith stood dumbly blinking, wondering if he was dying and this was all a hallucination.
"It's Margaret, you unwashed brat!" Edward seethed, slapping Keith into the moment. "Help me! Hide! Get behind the TV and take Rory with you".
Keith was so shocked that he simply obeyed, thinking longingly of the roast dinner he would have been enjoying by now.
Edward danced about the room like a man possessed, throwing a rug over the pool of blood where Rory had been and trying, ludicrously, to correct his appearance. Keith heard the sound of the door open and shut, and footsteps.
Keith heard a woman's voice.
"Edward... I've been meaning to say this for a long time... Look I know you're a good man. I'm not promising anything but... oh, god. Will you take me to our spot in the park, like old times? Just once? I know you want it too. I know it."
She sounded more hopeful than confident. Hang on, thought Keith. This is my chance. The old man hasn't got his gun on him and he won't wanna ruin the moment. I can walk out of here.
Once more, Keith leapt from behind the television. Margaret let loose a deafening scream and nearly fell over as she staggered back in terror. The look in Edward's eyes was baleful.
"...Edward. I'm gonna walk out of her now, okay mate? This is over. It's all over."
Keith began to walk slowly towards the door, hands raised. Once more he heard the gun click, and froze.
"Edward... Edward, what are you doing?" sobbed Margaret.
Edward blurted out what had happened in a half-crazed shout. Nothing to lose now, thought Keith. He turned to face the two of them, and noticed that Margaret had a strange, distant look in her eyes.
"All... All I know is I should like to be taken to our spot in the park a few more times, at least. And if my Edward gets locked away for murder that can't happen... and I don't suppose that between two of us we can lift that man's body..."
Suddenly her voice hardened. "You there. Thief. If you help us get rid of his body, we'll spare you".
A little flame of idealism deep in Keith's belly guttered and died as the tempting scent of continued existence wafted over him.
"Alright. Alright you old bastards."
Fuck, thought Keith. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What now? I'm not prepared for this, for fuck's sake. I'm not a violent man. He nervously felt for the Animal Liberation Front badge by his breast pocket. 20 years in this cause... is this it? Is this little loopy loo with some antique shooter gonna finish me off? His heart raced. He thought about his family and, hating himself, let a few silent tears grizzle their way out from his veteran eyes.
Suddenly, Rory croaked "A...amm, muh, muh... ambulance"
Keith stared horrified at the blood-soaked American. So he's not dead. He reached for his mobile.
"I can't take that risk, I'm afraid" said Edward. The gun was trained on Keith.
Keith took a few shuddering breaths. "Edward, now, just... listen alright? It is Edward isn't it?"
No reply.
"Edward he's gonna die if we don't call an ambulance. Alright mate? You'll be a murderer. None of us want that."
No reply. Despite the horror of the situation, Keith felt a twinge of every-day frustration at the old man.
"Edward for fuck's sake!" Keith cried, voice cracking.
"No... no. We can't call him an ambulance. I've already shot him, that's jail time, and I don't rate his chances anyway. Now who the bloody hell are you people?"
What the fuck is going on. It really, really wasn't meant to be like this. Keith's hands shook.
"We're... we're animal liberation activists, Edward. Please let me call an ambulance, alright? Please."
Where is this old boy gettin' confidence. Jesus fuck I didn't sign up for this.
Edward's face switched from glaring anger to a contemptuous sneer. He gave a low chuckle.
Fucking LAUGHING?
"You mean to tell me that my home has been invaded by bleeding heart hippies? You mean to tell me that you are responsible for stealing that letter?"
Keith just stared.
"Well then. I shall dispose of you both in the river. I daresay you'll enjoy getting back to nature"
"You know what Edward? Fuck you, mate. Fuck you, you silly bourgeoisie cunt. It'll be an honour to die by Rory's side, fightin' against your fuckin' cruelty! And that daft old bitch is never gonna love you. In fact, I bet she thinks you're a tit."
Scarcely believing what he was doing, Keith walked towards Edward, arms outstretched, leaned his chest into the barrel of the gun and spat full into his face.
Edward had been struck momentarily rigid with rage, but on feeling Keith's spit slap into his cheek, snapped out of it.
"Well then. This is it. Get ready".
Keith thought about adopting a crucifix pose, emulating Jesus, but decided it was too pretentious. He mentally made vows of undying love for his family and his wife. He was ready. He braced himself for the bullet. In the distance, the birds sang.
And a car pulled up.
What?
"It's Margaret!" hissed Edward, scrabbling around frantically, gun cast aside.
Keith stood dumbly blinking, wondering if he was dying and this was all a hallucination.
"It's Margaret, you unwashed brat!" Edward seethed, slapping Keith into the moment. "Help me! Hide! Get behind the TV and take Rory with you".
Keith was so shocked that he simply obeyed, thinking longingly of the roast dinner he would have been enjoying by now.
Edward danced about the room like a man possessed, throwing a rug over the pool of blood where Rory had been and trying, ludicrously, to correct his appearance. Keith heard the sound of the door open and shut, and footsteps.
Keith heard a woman's voice.
"Edward... I've been meaning to say this for a long time... Look I know you're a good man. I'm not promising anything but... oh, god. Will you take me to our spot in the park, like old times? Just once? I know you want it too. I know it."
She sounded more hopeful than confident. Hang on, thought Keith. This is my chance. The old man hasn't got his gun on him and he won't wanna ruin the moment. I can walk out of here.
Once more, Keith leapt from behind the television. Margaret let loose a deafening scream and nearly fell over as she staggered back in terror. The look in Edward's eyes was baleful.
"...Edward. I'm gonna walk out of her now, okay mate? This is over. It's all over."
Keith began to walk slowly towards the door, hands raised. Once more he heard the gun click, and froze.
"Edward... Edward, what are you doing?" sobbed Margaret.
Edward blurted out what had happened in a half-crazed shout. Nothing to lose now, thought Keith. He turned to face the two of them, and noticed that Margaret had a strange, distant look in her eyes.
"All... All I know is I should like to be taken to our spot in the park a few more times, at least. And if my Edward gets locked away for murder that can't happen... and I don't suppose that between two of us we can lift that man's body..."
Suddenly her voice hardened. "You there. Thief. If you help us get rid of his body, we'll spare you".
A little flame of idealism deep in Keith's belly guttered and died as the tempting scent of continued existence wafted over him.
"Alright. Alright you old bastards."
I have an idea
I am blocked on this opening for a short story. So, maybe anyone who reads this should just comment and continue it how they want to. I do have my own version but it's not working for me. Bah, here it is anyway continue it as you will, I've called it battered accoustic:
One night in December the four of us came staggering back to my place, laughing and singing loud into the deep; as if we could, this time, chase despair away for good. We never had much food in my flat, but there was a battered old acoustic in the corner, a view from the loft window that could be used to see the stars on cloudless nights, and love on tap.
GET INVOLVED
- Get Involved
- Interesting
- Good times
- Interesting times
- You love it
- Hab
- Han
- Brynevere
- Is that the original
- Is that a bit freudian
- is that a live version
- sandwich bags
- i'm harny
- habby days
- ...Writers block can fuck off. :(
I really, really miss my girlfriend.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Distant dial tones
I dreamt that I was going to meet Molly&Jacob and it was summer. I was in a new house with my mum and it was kinda nice and I was wondering how I would be able to get in touch with them. Then I heard someone shout "Jacob!" from outside and it was Molly's voice. I went outside and it was a gorgeous day, bright clear blue sky and awesome sunshine. No one was on the street, but then I thought, hang on, this is stonehouse drive. So I ran in the direction of their house, but it had been replaced by a a big detached house that was sort of circular in shape, and decorated in a really bourgeoisie way, and you had to go to up some little spiral stairs to get to the door. and cleo was knocking on the door and some guy I didn't know, so I said hey to them. And then some distant friends of the family of a slightly chavvy and matriarchal bent opened it, and beckoned them in, and then saw me and in total shock ushered me in where there were more of that crowd and they all wanted to ask me about stuff in that really loud, outgoing and superficial and overly concerned way that they do. Then I saw Freya Samuelson who I've met like 3 times and never spoken to, and a guy from my uni. They said hey, I asked how they knew eachother. The guy said "well, we're friendly now, but we used to step out back in the day". I laughed and mocked his use of the phrase 'step out', comparing it to how an 18th century gentleman might say it. He laughed and expanded the joke a bit.
Then Dan knocked on my door and I woke up. He wants me to go to the science museum with him and emily in a bit to make some robots. :) I might go.
Whenever I wake up from afternoon sleeping I feel strangely floaty and egoless, and like I want to just be meekly nice to everyone.
Then Dan knocked on my door and I woke up. He wants me to go to the science museum with him and emily in a bit to make some robots. :) I might go.
Whenever I wake up from afternoon sleeping I feel strangely floaty and egoless, and like I want to just be meekly nice to everyone.
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Someone give me something new and geeky to get into
I like getting into things that are new and geeky. It can be anything. TV shows, films, intellectual subjects, books, games, whatever. :) *nods*
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