“With  your  REICH  you’ll  bring  us  down…”  

Copyright © Louis Rowe 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including

photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of

brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

   COLLECTION  OF  FLOWING  STORIES.    Black  sun  waiting  on  the  edge  of  the  pillow  on  the  edge  of  the  Yellow  Sun.  Silent  talking,  there  are  three  of  us.  WE  know  how  to  relate  without  speaking  because  there  is  a  closer  talk  inside  a  colder  sun,  an  concealed  conversation  in  the  blackness  of  her  hair,  my  zooms  round  her,  like  gold  gleams  that  speak  too  loudly,  directed  at  the  First  Sun,  without  hearing,  without  wanting  to  question,  I  turn  the  sun  round  in  my  hair  and  lean  towards  her,  it’s  ju      that  place  for  quiet  women,  stone  in  the  light,  strong  dark,  left  out  inside,  on  the  edge  of  the  city,  under  the  solar  blue  glare  of  the  flashing  skyscraper,  the  black  sun  in  the  choking  streets,  caged  in  by  millions  of  miles  of  steel,  meeting  every  witch  in  her  black  luck,  morose  down-­‐turned  mouth.       I  want  to  be  him.  I  want  to  be  that  boy.    I  live  by  the  river,  behind  a  forest,  so,  I  don’t  want  to  keep  walking...she  has  to  walk  miles  in  the  same  lane,  built  like  a  noisy  motorway,  full  of  angry  people,  dangerous  men  seek  out  the  edge  of  the  sun  and  break  into  the  veil  of  her  hair,  which  is  straight  down,  holding  her  moon  face  in-­‐between,  blocking  the  light,  blocking  the  eyes,  shut  tight.  One  was  almost  a  boy,  but  his  breath  was  salty,  and  he  laid  palms  on  her  skin,  and  left  something,  that  she  didn’t  care  about,  and  I  couldn’t  wash  off  her  hands.  She  didn’t  care,  out  loud,  so  she  slept  like  a  stone,  her  hair  covering  her  whole  little  body,  her  mind  so  big,  inside  so  small,  and  later,  she  cried,  while  the  yellow  sun  began  to  snore.       I  was  sure  I  was  enough  to  reach  the  sky,  be  the  sky,  envelope  the  city  edge,  blast  fire  lit  my  hair,  the  gold  reams  of  steel  shone  one  way  and  quickly  spoke  another  way,  flashing  at  light  speed  towards,  then,  turning  away  and  reflecting  her,  lighting  her  off  the  hot  metal,  flashing,  opposing.  Song.     Fire  attacks  the  peaceful.  Witch  in  a  man  in  a  black  suit  and  white.  Offensive  men,  she  passes,  hands  in  pockets,  wise  pout,  stone  eyes,  waving  ebony  and  deep  blue  hair,  crashing  through  the  wind  of  the  river,  no  screams.  Kiss  bedscreams  silent.  There’s  got  to  be  more  of  an  introduction.  A  tale,  where  something  happens.  The  sun  is  a  bit  stupid,  but  he  laughs  a  lot,  madly  they  say,  no  reason  to  laugh,  he  points  his  fingers,  he  thinks  they  are  too  big,  he  shoves  them,  he  puts  knives  in  them,  he  is  loud  but  he  rushes  away  from  a  sudden  opponent,  almost  everyone  is  an  opponent,  what  mad  luck,  even  his  mother,  his  father,  his  cousins,  he  got  so  much  burning  suns  around  him,  he  sees  the  sun  cut  

into  the  stone,  graffiti  knives,  so  he  just  laughs  to  please  the  quiet.  He  doesn’t  run  away  from  violence  it  makes  him  giddy.  He  could  just  see  them  all  turn  into  the  sun,  and  perhaps  they’d  be  burning.  He  doesn’t  want  to  r     She  doesn’t  know  what  a  man  is,  she  keeps  the  moon  focusing  on  the  ground  of  the  earth,  the  cement  soils,  counting  little  toes  in  black,  looks  up  sometimes  and  whimpers  because  the  sky  is  being  crushed  out  of  view  from  the  sun,  but  looking  into  him,  and  reflecting  his  light  through  things  that  burn,  the  eyes.    There  was  a  film,  he  said  it  to  be  good,  there  was  a  film,  wasn’t  it  the  high  skies?  But  what  was  it?  He  laughs  at  symbols  or  thorough  thought,  the  thoroughfare  of  the  sun,  wins  out  anyway,  its  so  big  it  burns  up  everything  else.  Fire  was  cast  down  from  the  sun  and  it  frightened  her.  He  said,  yah,  yah  and  flames  fingers  that  were  too  keen,  flickered  outward,  and  drank  up  an  ashtray  of  old  cold  coffee  and  old  cigarette  ends.  He  giggled  as  he  spat  it  out  and  cast  a  shadow  on  the  carpet.    She  waited  so  long,  she  decided  to  speak,  “wont  you  please?”  He  was  busy  like  fire,  it  always  spins  and  crackles  and  persists  in  frightening  endless  explosions  or  meltations  of  explosion,  crashing  and  hitting  itself,  whirling  round  itself  like  ten  tongues,  built  with  a  wall  that  can  allow  nothing  else.           He  doesn’t  want  to  learn  now.  He  has  realised  he  wants  to  know  nothing  but  the  moon.  It  all  gathers  in  one  big  encyclopaedia  of  noises,  his  head  keeps  fizzing  out,  blinded  by  the  screen  of  brightness,  astonished  by  the  noise  coming  outwards,  looks  up  over  the  horizon  of  the  computer  screen  edge  and  sees  her  sleeping,  laying  on  the  light  blue  duvet,  in  a  round  black  circle,  he  calls  her  that.       Sam  the  man.  Someone  told  him  about  Sam.  She  didn’t  know  that,  he  was  refusing  to  go  out.  He  was  always  calling  and  chatting  strangers,  she  found  that  out.  HE  left  her  on  the  edge,  spinning  faster  with  joy,  all  exclamations,  and  loud  stamping  and  drumming  of  black  feet,  did  he  never  sleep  until  the  light  went  out,  and  he  went  bang?    He  dragged  an  arm,  wanting  to  hold  it  round  that,  part.  But  he  shrank  back  at  the  countless  movement  of  silent  things  formed  round  the  air,  sharing  two  airs,  two  sets  of  eyes  waiting  by  looking,  he  thought  he  would  see.  Two  sets  shut  tight.    HE  wanted  her  to  meet  the  man  that  knew  about  sam.  Not  that  man  beneath.  The  one  shifting  the  air,  he  wandered  where  the  breath-­‐woman  was,  where  the  wall  women  could  be,  the  ones  that  stood  tall,  statues  cut  into  her  wall,  never  moving,  proud  and  tall  and  wise,  guarding  them.  The  walls  had  a  tongue.       He  rose  off  the  bed  violently  and  grinned.  His  dagger  cut  his  palm  as  he  grinned  at  the  blank  wall  above  her  black  crown;  he  cut  into  the  skin  a  little  circle.  She  cried,  he  went  to  sleep,  slowly  lifting  himself  upside-­‐down  back  onto  the  mattress.  She  didn’t  bother  to  cover  herself,  in  the  summer,  she  would  have  burned  him,  in  the  winter  she  would  have  lived  on  and  on,  suddenly  she  turned,  and  her  teeth  were  black,  she  grew  eyes  like  drops  of  flame,  round  and  shot  with  the  edge  of  the  candle  flame,  pointed  at  the  far  ends.  Everything  stopped,  because  he  got  scared.  Something  else  got  them,  then.  Something  bad.  “Oh  no.”  He  said,  and  his  fire  ever,  ignored  the  tell-­‐tale  signs  of  death,  and  his  feet  scrambled  on  the  sheets  and  he  dragged  his  body  towards  her.  She  hissed.    

  The  moon  flashed  brighter  than  the  sun  and  said  he  wasn’t  fire  enough  to  understand  how  to  overcome  anything.  He  just  basked  in  delight,  without  knowing  what  fire  was  within.  Stupid  happiness  writhing  inside,  giving  to  the  outside,  burning  up  lightly  what  he  didn’t  want.  She  had  had  to  fight.  Her  light  leapt  into  his  face,  and  he  didn’t  want,  like  water  in  a  bowl  doesn’t  want  like  the  fire  under  rolling  waves,  and  thundering  rivers,  and  crashing  waterfalls.  He  just  glimmered,  big  far  out  grin,  nothing  moving  within.     She grinned like burning up fire, and he followed her flow round a tiny flat, and push a cigarette in a white bowl, “I don’t’ care if you want me… she snarled. Misery got him. Misery got me. He began boiling up, he hadn’t said that! Why say that! Say what I say, what you should say is what I say! He had a big free place to roam where the trees hissed outside, but were better than the voices of people outside and nice to look at. She was the best to look at, of course, but now she was hissing things…a spent force, she had said, a quiet dying weeping, weakness under the onslaught of men and towers buzzing, thundering shit for money, buying for loose pockets, everything taken up by everyone, give me the little stone, the special one, he said, I don’t want those people, and… That it that keeps trying to buy her must be the Sam, but Sam I supposed to be nice. She is a bitch the sun said. She was singing now, flowing through the tiny rooms, without a step, singing and smoking. His face drew back, and he blinked. He stepped away...started to weep, stayed well away, and then, waited politely. Meanwhile shouting inside and hissing. She blinked His eyes had caught the back of hand holding to the mouth, that was a cigarette, he said. She blinked. He had frozen her, they were both expectant, he went to singing very loudly, to step her out of time of her song. Sorry. His brain was rushing with fire, as he lay back, watching the wall above her head. “What do I say that you know?” she said. He looked down, and turned his face, he had turned black. Go away. Sorry. She stepped into the bath, pointing her naked toe, and he ran, ran through the trees, ran to the western edge, and turning back to her, screamed back across the sea. He decided to close his eyes. Her one, mother was in a state of distress. The sun cant fly, she said! Its stuck on a never moving rope round his neck. She held her knee and screamed at the bath ceiling to tell the moon to

leave. The sun went into shadow, he wanted to sleep. She said, she showed the sun a knee. He in dread. “What would they say?’ she is busy. Back to the daylight, when we talk, okay? The mother is in distress, and now so am I. IM ANGRY THAT THEY LOOK AT ME. I said something and she replied, sinking eyes, there’s a black wonder, shielding my speech, closing down my eyes, don’t want to sleep, got to run into the cupboard, hide….Ha, her eyes flashed sideways and she said, you are black! I pressed the pause button, and hovered down into the mattress and put my eyes into the screen, I waited sometime, hoping she would leave, and if I could sleep this early. The clouds are passing over the trees now, so the sunlight seems neutral grey, and no-one sees the moon, unless they look around for it. It’s when they light up the bulbs, under the ceilings. They could go on and on, but the night is for sleeping. I clouded over immediately and forgot she was there. ----I see a quick vision when I flash my eyes, and it burdens me, its like I’m not existing anymore. But she stands up without an expression, lifting up a black towel wrapped to her chest, like a cloak is that okay? I said then. My flame burst, it was inside, deep in my mind, and it looked form my eyes, and destroyed itself, I blinked and said, how can something happen? She mewled; I looked away from the computer and said that’s not okay. ================= I waited for tomorrow. When I could forget today. I said I need, no no no, NO! I mean I need to hear you speak, not now, then, oh what a lot of bother, I can’t sleep. Goodbye. The mother was burning through all the things that were coloured black in her room, and disappearing, beside her, I thought, I have to go. Realize I do what I’m told ‘. I decide to wear a bit more black, walk out a bit more, forget her respectfully for a bit.

But, then scanning the streets, I wonder why I am in so many firemen. I mean, uhm, human men, that look full of angry weird bunched up muscles perhaps, frightening place. Best to go back to bed. Wait for that Black Sun to rest on the edge of the window, from stress of the people under the skyscrapers. I don’t look for days, and wait indoors all of the days. I forget what I look like, you know how that is? I want the moon to weep though. And I get angry, because she is not. I want to know exactly what is happening. She stands in the middle of the room, with her little bones sagging, and says, “…this is weird.” She is repeating what I say! That was what I said about the computer! I want to be the biggest sun in the land of suns. My chest rises and burns up growls from beneath my ribs. What is going on, please miss? I didn’t eat, and something highly important is happening, as I avert my eyes from her all the time, and beat a fork against my wrist, quickly, watching the noodles boil over, become overwhelmed by orange squid foam. Why look? “Just look…” I hear whispered, but I am tired. So, I say, no. You understand I said no? The moon is giggling!? That is not supposed to be. I suppose you…”you don’t know what I said.”..."...I don’t know what you said…” “You are, er, repeating the mother? And you have something outside, it is a big thing, and I ma watching a film. It is from your country, specifically a bit further away, but near your country, Goodbye.” Going into something we don’t want. I wonder if the Sam man wants to speak? Some lines are funny but I

have to rewind it, to get the joke, subtitles. It could burn up everything around you. I can see shock. We were both in shock, because I didn’t remember what had happened to make the black hair wilt so, and hide the face so. But I always remembered, and her body is in spasms, and I am typing, and her body looks like it has grown longer, and has more things, I mean, she has long legs and arms, she looks like an old lady, she has nice long veins peeking out of her skin and they are purple like old ladies, nice. “I’m, sorry, but it got me too…” No words, shaking I suppose, I suppose that hand is getting bigger and bigger, taut with muscles and long purple veins, getting whiter. The bed turned the other way against the window, and it looks like a bigger bed for a small body, but her body looks bigger, blue black and white, in the cloud by the window. Neutral times outside under the clouds. The film has a life more than our life, but I cannot turn it off, I can turn away from her, but I don’t blink from the screen. What will happen? I say. As I say so, her face is crashing into the blue curtain at the edge of her the window, she looks like a stick insect, her face is jutting outwards from her neck, she is fanning her long bony fingers, and gasping, but her head looks like it is biting at the blue cloth, back and forth. Sorry, I say. Don’t do something, she says, but I went back to a place where I stare at the mattress, where it has got rid of the white sheet, and I have a cigarette there. She has a long chin, she has frozen in the midst of a spasm, I say move that hand, it is fanned and frozen.

I turn a bit on the mattress but keep the computer on my lap, I think roll to the bed, and help her. I pause, and look, but she has somehow turned off what I am trying to looks at. Sorry, I mutter, and type faster to someone below the world of life, buried in the code, on a blue and white screen, I have to you know. I have to be. I hurt, but the girl, hears me leap all the way in, and she has an open black bony mouth, and strong stretched chin, a large head, she has turned white, the hair has turned, white, she is across the bed now and trying to lay back on the pillow. DO I kiss? - Sorry I say. There is too much shock to speak. Lets just both sleep. “All this shite, in, morons…” I mutter. An error has occurred I say. There was nothing for the film, but there’s nothing for me, so. SLEEP. “You don’t want a computer do you? I am typing…My fire in behind the eyes ahs come back! I know water though! “I love you…” She rests…”But, the mother…” She is dead.” She says, hand slowly, like a flower of rock, closing. OK, I say. Go then. I hear Sam, briefly right beside me in the wall, where the toilet is I say, and say “Oh.” That is why. Oh, no, we can’t call each other.

Come here, I say, and hold my arms up, skin turned black, I heard Sam, come here. I am still not sure. I say the plan, put it down. OK. Call that mother though, incase. == Make me in the middle of the morning, and then find that tyrant is after me.  Laid  across  my  bed,  burnt  up  arms,  waiting  for  the  water  to  come  down  from  the  ceiling  and  cool  the  fire  in  me  off.  It  is  all  there,  as  it  is,  fire  is  pure,  my  body  must  be  less  so,  I  rock  on  my  back,  arms  stretched  out  burning  until  even  the  bones  are  black.       There’s  an  interval  for  her,  a  long  time  of  waiting,  caught  somewhere  in  the  mattress  watching  me  fighting  a  fire  we  cant  see,  don’t  understand,  don’t  want,  cant  get  rid  of.    I  say.  Go,  go.  And  scream  without  letting  her  hear  me,  by  choking  it  up  inside  my  throat.           Ching  chub=girl  lovers  tease  There  is  no  way  to  express  my  horror;  she  mustn’t  get  scared  too,  what  is  happening  to  us?  IS  anything  happening  to  you?      There  is  nothing  so  go  away,  that  is  safe  for  you  if  you  go  away.  There  cant  be  any  fire  near  the  moon.  She  just  thought  it  was  a  kiss,  not  someone  who  is  dying,  there  is  no  fire,  you  want  it?  Help!  Help!  I  give  up  she  said,  and  rolled  off  the  bed.            

 PART  2  

 I  keep  taking  shots  of  her  skin,  as  I  want  it  in  close-­‐up.  Like  polaroids,  that  I  can  glance  at  quickly,  say  no,  and  then  set  a  flame  up,  and  disappear  them,  disappear  as  take  them  out  of  my  eye,  and  never  chance  to  put  them  in  my  mind.  the  skin,  

making  metallic  glints  as  the  arm  moves.    I  just  wonder  what  it  looks  like.  The  rolling  ball  light  that  turns  along  the  arm,  

looked  in  it  is  like  a  white,  I  say,  it  is  a  so  weird  colour  I  want  to  like.       Let  me  not  tell  you.  Let  me  look.  Do  that,  do  that,  I  say  lifting  the  arm  up  

and  down  like  it  is  a  paper  arm.      

You  can  go  outside  now.  Into  the  street.    

There  were  signs  on  the  table  that  is  my  bed;  it  is  a  station,  becoming  full  of  neglect,  where  I  conduct  business  and  relationships.  So,  there  when  I  stood  up  at  breakfast,  where  the  hint  of  my  life  blue  Walkman  and  teeth  earphones  in  pink,  and  a  lighter  that  must  have  been  under  my  body  all  night,  and  the  sheet  hanging  

off  the  edge.    I  had  to  know  what  each  object,  what,  they  were  saying.  I  leant  against  the  door,  and  then  did  my  bending,  reaching  toes,  lifting  legs  and  holding  them  on  the  door.  I  thought  I  needed  to  go  back  to  the  door,  but  I  had  to  meet  her,  not  

network,  for  work.  Meet  and  talk  about  the  table  I  live  in  a  bizarre  piece  of  mind,  that  has  created  a  sub-­‐culture  for  too,  so  despite  never  seeing,  anything  at  all,  I  walked  to  her  land,  and  took  up  what  I  know,  to  make  it  mine,  the  place  across  the  water,  my  edge  of  the  room,  where  there  are  suns  in  one.  Place  for  one  sun  together,  the  Main  one  we  watch  him  the  Sun,  and  surrounded  by  walls,  the  day-­‐glow  sun,  and  the  moon  everywhere,  all  over  the  walls,  all  a  part  of  card  and  

paint  and  steel  brackets  underneath,  and  wallpaper.  I  moved  the  earphones,  that  was  a  mistake,  to  disappear  into  music,  you  cannot  do  that.  A  link  between  us  

comes  first,  so,  go  away!      

We  are  making  a  world  I  said,  covered  and  ruled  by  the  sun.  Grateful,  basking  bodies,  in  the  sun.  Mine…  

 I  had  a  visitor,  but  my  door  was  closed.  It  is  a  box;  I  can  close  off  the  light  from  everywhere  else.    I  wonder  what  a  difference  makes?  What  an  individual  makes  for  the  rest  of  them,  you  can  be  you,  I  know,  in  a  closed  off  room.    It  ell  the  moon  to  lie  low,  and  get  back  to  work.    Then,  there  is  a  fire  in  the  night,  tugging  at  hear,  clasping  the  covers  like  a  body,  one  way  the  next.  Unable  to  find  her  though.    

     

A  lot  of  lack,  brings  a  lot  of  shine.  It  forces  you  to  want  to  shine  higher,  further,  than,  the  little  men  of  the  little  world  outside.  I  didn’t  care  for  leaving  my  room.  How  could  you  get  this  life  anywhere  else?  Ghosts  don’t  cooperate,  with  low-­‐rate  

life  such  as  shopping,  or  working.  Computer  working.  I’m  the  one  to  leave,  though,  give  space.  

 Food  is  horrible.  Food  is  like  something  so  dead,  that  I  can't  look  at  it,  and  do  not  want  to  eat.  A  rose  gets  stuck  into  where  it  is,  non-­‐moving,  never  able  to  lift  up  and  move  on,  but  it  looks  full  of  hope  and  glory.  Some  are  pink,  some  are  yellow.  

We  would  have  sprayed  all  the  flowers  black.    My  block  room  is  the  best  room,  because  her’s  doesn’t  have  emptiness,  It  has  big  

steel  beams  running  across  the  ceiling  and  walls,  she  has  smog  outside  a  window,  hit  straight  against  another  metal  block,  it  has  messiness,  poor  mess,  breaking  furniture  and  rotten  sinks.  It  has  a  pale  light  walking  between  small  barriers,  don’t  some  too  much;  it  will  clog  more  of  the  light  and  might  catch  up  

the  curtains  and  set  you  alight.    I  start  weeping,  unexpectedly.  I  look  at  her,  she  is  a  dead  drone  walking  slowly,  

and  pining  for  something,  that  is  called:  the  Something  Else.  

 We  are  blocked  in  by  a  yawn.  But  it  isn’t  us.  We  wait  for  it  to  leave,  perking  up  our  ears,  wondering  where  it  will  go  next.  WE  don’t  react.  WE  don’t  want  it  to  know,  anything.  I  wont  let  the  fire  into  her  room.  So,  I  get  back  to  work.  I  am  so  ugly,  suddenly.  I  look  up,  lift  my  brows  before  the  screen,  and  say  I  am  so  ugly.  

And,  I  wonder  without  closing  the  book.  Why  tell  you,  I  am  ugly.      

HER:    

Cut  back  to  me,  I  want  to  be  told.  I  want  to  be  God.  I  want  you  to  weep.  You  are  weird-­‐looking  because  you  are  me,  I  do  have  another,  we  are  three.  That  

other?  I  wonder….(?)  

.      

  I   I  think  I  spilled  my  drink,  but  I  couldn’t  understand  where  the  spillage  was,  so  I  wasn’t  supposed  to  get  angry,  so  I  downed  the  last  of  the  drink,  and  said  I  want  more,  I  want  more,  go  away,  leave  the  door.      

3rd:    

I  know  how  to  blast  away  the  head.  The  one  innocently  sailing  the  waves  of  the  streets,  walking,  in  conversation  with  friends,  admitting  no  other,  no  one  like  me,  until  I  stare  in  and  take  in,  take  one  innocent  in,  and  say  what  is  dead,  and  the  head  cracks,  a  lava  rip  down  the  line  of  the  individuals  face.  A  fire-­‐mountain  crack  down  the  middle  of  the  head,  where  they  begin  to  hear  my  weeping  

insanities,  and  flow  towards  my  place  of  everything  knowing  there  is  nothing,  and  a  secret  so,  I  can’t  tell  you  now,  because  I  didn’t  mean  to  kill.  

 She  cracks,  her  fingers  splay  like  wooden  petals  of  hand-­‐fans,  hard  and  bony,  it  means  she  is  remembering.  I  sigh,  then,  I  glare  over  at  her  space,  without  looking,  I  throw  a  deep,  thick  emptiness  of  thought,  coming  close  to  hate,  that  apathetic  idea,  torn  between,  the  idea  of  doing  something  when  wanting  to  say  nothing,  do  nothing,  over  the  edge  into  a  pure  fine  steel  piercing  hate.  Because  I  can.  I  don’t  

want  to  most  times,  but  I  do  when  I  can.    Then,  you  anger  me  cos  you  say  something  you  were  not  meant  to  say  to  me,  it  was  stupid,  and  I  had  no  reply,  well,  I  huffed  and  stared  long  into  the  near  

distance,  the  place  where  all  the  things  happen,  boxed  up  and  mixed  and  listed  and  arranged  in  a  white  box,  I  am  without  seeing  it  at  all.    

   

There  is  no  effect  on  the  Sun,  but  when  it  screams  the  moon  has  to  stay  there  to  listen.    

Latent  heat.  

I’m  sinking  beneath  the  earth,  now  slowly  in  my  head  which  is  still  up  above,  hanging  there  alone,  but  fast  like  the  vital  organs  are  screaming,  the  bile  is  

spinning  round  and  leaking  so  I’m  folding,  down,  down…    

Lets  be  good  I  say,  so  I  go  to  silence.  That  ignores  the  pain,  somewhere  I’m  rising  and  lighting,  but  I  have  to  do  so  quietly  until  the  whole  place  is  white.    

  She  didn’t  know  what  happened,  she  just  died.    

She  just  died.    -­‐-­‐  

Thinking  of  free  things,  like  food.    

It’s  my  belly.  Its  churning.  

 I  decided  to  go  outside  

I  have  a  plastic  bag  between  my  fingers,  come  back,  I  have  a  bag  so  light  I  wonder  why  I  am  weak,  I  couldn’t  have  anything  heavier,  a  girl  gets  heavier,  she  is  on  the  side  of  a  bus,  hefting  a  huge  round  terracotta  lump  with  sharp  ropes  wrapped  

round  it.      

She  is  screaming.  I  am  not.  

I  have  bad  ears.  They  have  lots.  They  must  have  eyes  too,  because  to  see  her  is  the  reason  for  eyes.  The  look  of  her,  complete,  body  of  blue  shadow,  and  white  

covered  by  brushstrokes  of  black  hair,  painted  lightly  against  the  wall.      

That  screaming,  sear  my  ears,  so  I  sit  there  staring  at  a  video,  wondering  why  I  am  sitting  here,  bleeding  in  both  ears  and  hoping  the  video  will  be  so  loud  it  will  

sound  and  look  like  I  am  not  even  there.  I’m  swinging  a  rope,  towards  her,  that  I  hold,  and  she  doesn’t.  I’ve  almost  just  

gone,  but  she  is  always  on  my  mind.  Why  I’ve  used  that  rope  to  tie  me  to  all-­‐important  things  that  I  ignore,  letting,  

whetting,  getting  on  with  work.  I’m  tied  in  by  the  rope.  

 Did  it  just  get  you  by?  

I’ve  got  lots  to  do  I  am  supposed  to  be  so  busy.  You  are  supposed  to  be  sleeping  and  waiting  for  me,  just  me.    

 What  is  there?  

There  are  good  rooms,  mine  is  becoming  like  a  bad  room.  We  should  join  rooms.  I  am  still  not  speaking  to  her,  or  listening,  I  just  say.  Without  feeling  I  say,  I  ma  waiting,  keeping  her  here,  repelling  her  back  there.  When  she  turns  she  wants  to  look  unattached  to  the  depth  of  the  water  beneath  the  moon,  like  a  person  with  a  body,  not  a  moon  fallen  to  the  ground,  sleeping  for  the  things  she  made.    The  backdrop  to  a  wilting  pale  light,  misplaced,  pulled  down  to  the  magnetic  

structures  under  the  floor.  Its  been  very  getting  me.    

It  would  be  good  to  let  her  do  something.  Lay  back  there  on  the  bed,  and  go  to  sleep.  Don’t  watch  me  working.  Don’t  speak.         That  is  thing  is  killing  my  Time,  there  will  be  an  end  of  the  thing,  and  no  more  names  for  the  thing,  just  a  no,      

 Not  because  a  gate-­‐crasher  is  never  a  friend,  he  gets  me  to  get  my  party  which  is  my  throne  of  ideas  and  my  own  selection  of  music  and  my  old  friends,  so  a  new  person,  you  are  the  slimey  coffee  stains  hanging  on  my  wallpaper,  not  to  be  seen,  except  I  can  see  them  and  don’t  want  them  but  I  have  too  much  time  to  change  

them.    

Day  4;    

Blackened.  By  their  intellect,  by  a  small  room  called  poverty,  and  class  deceased,  discredited  by  someone  just  poking  their  toes  in  and  expecting  some  high  regard  through  low  lament,  An  insincere,  or  worse  it  was  sincere!  But  it  was  stupid  and  rather  cool,  so  cool,  not  to  me;  something  bites  at  my  tongue  and  my  teeth  flare,  

pieces  of  two  small  tools  at  the  icon  with  no  no.    

A  no  no  nu  no,  a  video.  I  stepped  on  the  box  and  slammed  my  foot,  to  crush  it,  but  my  foot  bounced  back  as  it  grinned  at  me,  the  screen  of  the  kid  on  the  screen,  shrieked  at  me,  and  I  found  my  own  foot  screaming  sore,  and  for  weeks  later  it  was  like  the  tendons  were  ripped  or  twisted  round.  SO  don’t  move,  as  long  as  you  

don’t  move,  you  have  the  work  game.  Where  you  get  killed  at  level  1.    

Don’t  let  me  go  outside  again,  but  don’t  bring  a  chaperone,  if  you  think  I  can  go  out  again  but  not  alone.    

There  were  breaks  between  periods  of  hate,  little  mouse  hiding  in  the  walls.  Then  they  got  me  with  dyed  red,  as  the  band  played  round  the  maypole  the  girl  go,  the  boy,  likes  it  with  joy.  They  put  the  cement  over  the  festival,  disregard,  not  me  in  the  community.  Good  show,  good  show.    They  sell  cosmic  cola  in  the  bright  sell;  they  have  no  more  additives  of  neon  juice,  just  lots  of  vitamins.  She  gone  

madly,  she  has  sailed  across  the  sea  for  all  I  know.    

Do  you  know  what  cherry  is?  It’s  the  sharpest  intellect,  it  fizzes  crossly  like  an  old  woman,  but  it  sharpens  senses.    Ask  me  some  questions  now,  on  cherry  

paper,  sign  the  rice,  with  a  flick  gun  of  black  ink.  Gate…flew  off  the  margin,  and  she  get  ready,  just  you,  kill  the  giant,  the  grey  flu,  of  the  guy  just  getting  hurry  

link  me  to  rare  big  hit,  just  get  the  you  in  kill,  mine,  they  kill,  pop!    

Pop.    

Give  heat,  just  ready;  get  the  huge  the  mighty  just,  fit  huge.    

Why  call  him?  Sam…    

She  stretched  out  her  face  like  a  shark  about  to  hit  you  and  eat  you,  and  giggled  and  kissed  pecked  the  pillow.  The  more  they  rose,  the  more  I  scarred.    

Joyless  rate.  Black  hum  boon  again,  the  big  boom  flew  over  the  me.  Guess  just  as  I  could  guess.    Gave  it.  Kill…kill  the  Sam,  can’t  you  do  that,  I  think  he  must  be  bad.  The  man  pretended  to  hurry  to  the  commute  line,  but  he  was  just  stepping  loosely,  hands  hanging  clipped  round  his  trouser  pockets,  had  so  much  to  say  about  sam.  He  told  me.  Then,  I  lost  the  line.  Something  how,  the  end  is  near.  The  company  they  agreed  about,  it  was  a  monster.  No  one  knew  Sam  was  a  monster.  We,  the  ghost  and  the  moon  and  I  knew  a  little.      I  went  to  sleep  over  the  computer,  I  stared  at  nothing  on  the  information  screen,  and  found  myself  slowly  falling  to  the  right  of  myself  and  I  closed  my  eyes.     =====    I  slept  with  you.  And  you  didn’t  see  me.    You  were  meant  to  see  me,  but  you  were  a  stick  person,  with  too  many  stick  limbs,  head  dropping  and  dribbling,  sleeping  I  think  it  is,  you  were  sleeping  and  hanging  off  the  computer.    I  can  be  her  now.  Which  is  me  not  you.    You  are  like  the  moon,  your  hair  is  like  the  moon,  your  body  carries  the  moon.  What  a  strange  skin,  it  has  sparkles  inside.  There’s  white  rice  in  the  skin,  you  shine  in  the  dark.      It  wasn’t  that  Sam  was  going  to  kill  you.  It  was  us.  You  are  fire  and  I  am  water.  I  like  that  we  get  dead.  I  like  you  to  think.  But  you  just  look,  and  then  fall  off  your  chair.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  I  have  to  go  to  work  now,  I  may  be  at  work  for  some  years.  So,  I  have  to  go  now.      THE  END.      One  stepped  out.    The  next  one  followed  and  stepped  out.  They  stepped  out  into  a  War,  they  didn’t  know  about,  and  suddenly  they  were  stupid  corporal,  and  not-­‐good  enough  corporal.  Two  best  friends.  They  stepped  into  a  lesson  on  how  to  step  in  time.  One  sank  down  to  the  bloody  ground,  drinking  sand  chunks  for  thirst.  Picking  finger-­‐by-­‐finger,  as  fast  as  he  can,  to  suck  on  frozen  water-­‐blood  lumps  of  sand.  One  flicked  a  knife,  silver  blade,  which  looked  at  the  friend,  with  a  mind  of  it’s  own,  it  judged  and  stared.    The  band  blew  the  frame.  The  barracks  patting  their  heads  and  ducking  as  a  sand-­‐storm  blew  down.  There  was  grit  in  the  teeth  for  days.  The  sand  sunk  and  split  beneath  the  boots,  and  slipped.  One  fell  down,  and  looked  dead,  but  he  went  to  sleep  where  he  could,  which  was  right  now,  right  there,  sleep  down.       I  wanted  to  be  frank  but  talking  cost  because  talking  wasn’t  the  problem,  the  fighting  was,  the  fighting  did  it,  you  could  speak  in  ten  tongues  and  notice  more  than  one  tongue  would  notice.  They  went  hiking  for  a  long  time,  with  heavy  backs.  The  sun  came  down,  the  black  was  black.    

  Don’t  step  into  War.  Watch  your  luck.  Don’t  step  in.  Why  did  you  step  in?  You  could  have  walked  out.    THE  END>    POISON  ASYLUM:      I  felt  it.    I  thought  I  could  die,  but  when  the  dawn  came  down  and  the  crows  flew  down,  I  couldn’t  die.  Then,  a  she  did,  a  girl  did,  a  girl  close  to  me  because  she  lived  in  my  bedroom.  I  got  angry  about  feeling  it.  I  wonder  if  I  am  dead,  she  said.  I  spat  at  her,  now,  I  know  I  don’t  want  to  spit  because  I  shouldn’t.  And  then  we  all  fell  down.  I  HATE,  that  I  am  dead.    I  thought  she  was  good  but  she  kept  being  horrible.  I  was  even  scared.  I  couldn’t  leave  because  they  knew  I  wanted  to,  they  made  up  so  many  things  to  prevent  me  from  leaving.  Even  using  the  idea  of  the  law,  What  is  that?  I  am  not  trouble.  I  didn’t  meet  anyone  scary.  I  just  know.      I  get  if  I’m  the  mugshot,  I  get  that  I’m  the  dog.  I  get  that  there’s  offices  to  work  in,  and  office  to  experience  not  working  in,  hospitals  are  big  offices,  that’s  where  they  send  me  all  the  time.  I  may  as  well  work  in  the  fucking  place,  because  I  didn’t  choose  to  go  here  like  their  slaves  did.  Had  to...How  could  have  got  locked  in  for  trying  to  get  out.    Someone  is  really  worried  and  they  called  it  mental  illness,  she  is  crying  please  because  she  is  a  cute  girl.  She  doesn’t  want  company  with  the  really  ill.  Its  like  they  are  evil.  She  doesn’t  understand  other  people,  so  many  other  strangers  to  try  to  understand,  and  no  choice,  or  picking  of  who  to  spend  time  with.    

A  GOOD  TENT  FOR  A  GOOD  COW.    I  got  off  the  boat,  and  got  in  his  tent.  He  looked  like  he  wanted  to  kiss,  and  he  also  looked  like  a  dirty  man  from  the  dead,  so  why  the  fuck  would  it  go  any  further?  You  may  as  well  hit  me  round  like  your  cow.  Ten,  inject  me  with  a  drink  just  so  I  can  go  to  sleep.  Under  your  bloody  command.  Not…put  me  to  sleep  so  I  can  disappear  in  your  presence  without  making  you  suspicious,  and  get  the  hell  out  of  you.  Ten  days  of  a  tent.  Company  bad.    How  could  are  think  you  are  a  woman  type  of  man?  God…I  go  out  luckily,  a  new  cowboy  picked  me  up,  and  threw  me  over  the  horse.  Good.      75  hours  of  trains,  not  those  sort  of  trains  the  ones  we  pay  to  get  onto.  Not  sorry  scary  unless  you  hate  people.  Smells  and  thankfully,  they  never  fart,  they  use  the  etiquette  and  save  it  up  for  home,  I  think,  well,  I  feel  safer  and  cleaner  near  girls.  YOU  WERE  IN  PAIN  FIRST,  TEHN  YOU  GOT  STUCK  IN  WIH  THE  MASSES  who  Had  said,  it’s  a  blind  society,  I  mean  a  transparent,  or  rather,  an  opaque  reason  that  gets  soaked  in,  having  been  put  between  us.  We  have  reserves  we  share  silently,  to  keep  society  together  in  understanding,  for  example,  not  being  a  coward  and  not  

caring  about  bodily  closeness,  unwanted  pain  of  being  crushed  in  with  the  masses.  Putting  up  with  the  train.    Like  the  girl  who  says,  do  this,  and  in  it  flows,  and  then  others  realise  the  same  thing,  and  say  stay  with  this.      It  is  worse  though;  we  have  to  stay  with  pain.      What  I  know  is,  is  that  I  am  a  man  that  goes  to  work.  I  use  the  train,  work  is  miles  away.  I  say  I  like  work.  I  don’t  think  of  anything  else.  That’s  what  I  say.    What  I  do  think  and  should  say,  I  don’t  think  of.  I  think,  I  think,  that,  IM  okay.  Another  good  day.  I  got  off  the  train.          Do  you  like  shopping?  I  don’t  know  the  fun  about.  About  it,  and  about  you.  IT  IS  ME.  You  and  they,  are  about,  Me.  I  will  tell  you.    I  am  a  mad  person,  that  looks  at  social  situations,  it  has  taken  me  some  time  to  work  out,  why  I  watch  society,  yet  don’t  walk  in  to  it.    ==    There  are  hazy  political  ideas  forming  in  me,  I  don’t  know  what  they  are  yet,  what  categories  they  are  in,  as  people  came  to  me  relatively  late  in  life,  and  told  me  I  had  to  choose  a  centre,  or  a  left  or  right,  …  When  I  was  just  thinking  about  what  could  be  better.      And  I  started  to  cry  one  day,  when  someone  accused  me  of  being  on  one  side  not  her  side,  and  I  actually  cried  in  front  of  her,  and  shook,  and  said  I  don’t  know  why  you  said  that.  I  don’t  think  I  think  of  that  topic  the  same,  all  the  time.  I  think  I  have  to  have  thoughts  that  change,  but  I  keep  the  ones  that  are  nice,  because,  now  I  know,  they  are  my  foundation.  They  are  spiritual  faiths,  but  you  shook  me  and  I  cried,  and  then  you  go  off  to  another,  with  a  different  view  to  you,  and  your  stance  shakes,  lightly,  and  you  say  I  agree.  But  you  say,  I  don’t  agree,  let’s  discuss.       That  left  me  all  the  way  behind.  I  knew  it  meant  you  wanted  to  snog  that  one  and  not  me.  My  views  are  changing  all  the  time.  Now,  I  don’t  care  about  you.  You  made  me  cry.          There  are  millions  of  systems  now,  and  I  am  overwhelmed.  If  I’m  not  good  enough  for  the  systems,  or  think  I  have  my  own  system,  another  kicks  me  all  the  way  down,  there  are  not  a  few  over  the  many,  there  are  more  and  more  systems  of  heights  than  ever  in  history,  everyone  is  a  genius.  All  the  geniuses  combined,  negate  me,  I  give  up  on  little  me,  drowned  by  the  amount  of  people  being  better  than  me,  so  now  I  am  a  No-­‐Me,  because  I  didn’t  hone  me,  I  got  lost  in  the  sea.        

=====  A  LITTLE  MAN  FUCKING  AROUND,  BLIND.  GOOD,  THEN  YOU  WONT  CARE  ABOUT  Dangers  TO  MANKIND,  they  come  from  your  own  kind.  Other  kinds.  Unknown  kinds  now.  I  want  to  be  a  person  in  a  house  with  a  small  family.  But  I  also  want  to  hear  you  speak.    I  want  to  be  your  friend;  I  picked  you  out  of  thousands  of  photos,  perhaps  millions  of  flashing  visuals  now,  after  some  years.  You  are  the  best.  I  am  writing  to  you  to  say,  we  don’t  have  to  die,  we  have  to  get  alive.  Have  a  good  day.  Be  good.  You  are  good.  I  hope  you  are  okay.      These  tales  are  chronologically  written,  and  the  writer  will  not  edit  anything.  SO  I  put  them  out  according  to  what  was  written  first,  not  what  I  thought  was  best.  I  don’t  like  it  much.      I  could  bleed  like  a  bird  shot  down  could  bleed.  Alone  an'  quietly.  Without  waiting  for  the  time  of  death,  religiously,  which  means  I  have  to  pray  for  myself,  and  tell  him  I  am  ready,  in  the  first  sacred  time  most  bastards  have  ever  noticed  they  have  to  pray  because  they  are,  going  to  die,  and  they  like  being  alive  so  they  don’t  damn,  no  way,  they  will  not  die,  they  want  to  go  on  and  on.  So  they  pray  once.      And  those  types,  the  bastards  are  running  after  me,  those  that  are  married  to  the  chicken  type  of  bird,  clucky  and  stupid,  noisy,  all  the  time,  click  cluck  click,  come  back,  roaring  and  thundering  across  the  fields,  interrupted  death,  and  I  am  burdened  by  noises.  Shoot  the  cat.  Last  minute  before  death,  and  it  snarls,  inserting  it's  head  below  the  sky,  above  my  face,  and  nips  at  my  shoulder,  and  spikes  in  and  drags  me  away  from  the  blue  sky,  that  makes  me  blink,  and  I  blink  at  the  cats  ginger  fur,  and  its  stiff  running,  and  I  blur  into  the  dewy  grass  and  the  nice  soft  wet  mud,  knocking  on  little  hillocks,  ignoring  pain,  knock  knock.        Making  her  wait  in  bed  forever.  Sometimes  she  is  allowed  to  peer  over  my  shoulder.    We  meet  at  the  same  place,  always.  So  many  times,  I  hate  the  place,  and  want  to  leave  her,  as  I  am  always  in  this  place.    I  must  wait  for  what  she  waits  for.  I  can’t  wait  so  long,  I  make  her  wait  while  I  wait,  because  I  can’t  speak,  I  don’t  like  to  speak,  if  I  say  something,  I  don’t  like  what  I  say.  And,  I  wont  say  it,  so  now  we  are  waiting  forever.        I  should  just  died,  I  said,  she  said.    But!  >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>to……………..But!    Small.    Her  lips  were  lit  like  the  night-­‐time  sleep  of  roses,  “I  whiten  the  sky  with  silk…HA!  >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>the  soul…….is  crying.>>>>>>>>>>  there’s  

a  gasp  in  the  night-­‐time,  closed  off  room  spun  with  smoke  of  cigarette.  My  face  gets  bolder;  I  frown  at  her  as  I  hear  the  animals  outside.  The  dog  said  much  to  me,  so  did  its  other.  I  frown,  set  my  jaw.  And  she  gasps,  three  times…    And  then  I  get  sad,  and  close  the  machine  down  lightly.      -­‐    I  killed  the  dogs,  and  frowned  at  my  feet,  then  I  turned  my  head  like  a  rock,  turned,  slowly,  searingly  heavy,  and  I  frowned  at  the  window,  where  the  dog  bled  gases,  and  died  beneath.    The  dogs  were  gathered  round  my  bed,  I  lay  flat  like  a  royal  statue  lies  above  its  tomb,  arms  crossed  and  silent.  They  pulled  my  duvet,  ripped  my  mattress  apart,  and  then  a  mass  of  furry  muscles  rushed  in,  jumping  on  me.  She  didn’t  know  this.  It  had  been  happening  each  day  of  my  disappearance.  Meanwhile,  she  was  walking  in  squares  up  and  down  her  room.      A  man  that  looks  like  a  gnome  underneath  a  hood,  walks  up  the  white  painted  line  after  Jay,  he  is  invisible,  he  is  quite  a  long  way  behind.  He  gets  rattled  by  the  rush  of  a  huge  lorry  speeding  by,  and  steps  left,  up  the  dry  grass,  on  the  steep  slope.    He  can  remember  someone  else’s  life.  Sam  and  the  moon,  and  the  others.  He  has  been  able  to  hear  his  friends  for  quite  a  long  time.  He  is  only  5.3  tall.  He  wanted  to  be  a  Disc  Jockey,  he  was  small  enough  to  look  like  a  horse  jockey,  maybe  someone  hinted  that  one  day,  and  he  got  the  wrong  idea,  and  made  high  hopes  for  music  rather  than  pain.  He  likes  the  Police.     Jay  is  like  a  fire.  Crashing  angrily  across  a  dangerous  terrain,  shrieking  at  himself.  Sam  passes  by  in  the  thought  of  a  man  on  a  train.  The  moon  just  relaxed.        Jay  has  spiked  long  hair  and  a  sharply  turned  up  stubby  nose.    Its  how  he  looks  down.  He  feels  blood  curdling  beneath  is  skin,  and  doesn’t  feel  right.  If  he  looked  plainly  he  would  see  they’ve  taken  him,  with  all  the  drugs,  and  his  blood  is  actually  disappearing,  invisibly  it  goes.  It  heats  the  skin  and  then  gets  cold  as  it  goes.        About  StonerRock  for  non-­‐smokers.  A  vehemently,  maybe  wise  hate  for  the  memory  of  Grass.  In  some  worlds  a  grass  is  a  criminal.    You  will  get  lonely  and  addicted  quickly,  if  the  ones  that  orbit  run  off  course  and  go  from  your  life.  You  take  Weed  like  food.  Ideas  stay  inside  you,  but  when  you  are  right,  you  are  scared  to  be  right.  Because  there  are  so  many  things  to  think  of.       At  least  after  cutting  Stone  away,  you  have  something  solid  and  inspiring.  So,  the  characters  smoke,  but  I  don’t  smoke  anymore.   I  didn’t  live  on  a  beach  under  the  moonlight,  I  was  in  a  house.  Empty  houses  are  bad.  They  leave  marks  of  people  that  have  had  to  go.  But,  -­‐music  saves  us-­‐  (quote)…the  path  to  being  

sectioned  and  running  away  with  records  of  joy.  Not  any  single  memory  of  being  alone.  But,  good  music.  Music  that  hits  you  off  course,  burning  down  the  sun.       So,  I’ve  got  no  cannabis,  but  miles  of  that  type  of  music…    Its  nice  to  know  it  gets  fashionable  in  ready  straight  organised  ways,  from  1967-­‐to  1995-­‐2003-­‐2007-­‐2013…    Kyuss,  Orange  Goblin,  to  Samsara  Blues  Experiment,  from  Can  and  Morgen,  and  Black  Sabbath,  and  Ultimate  Spinach,  and  mad  names,  and  now,  The  Myrrors…Electric  Wizard…Egypt…so  many  more,  all  on  the  tube.    And  you  have  a  Golden  Age  now,  in  2014,  of  anything  possible…you  can  spin  out  while  walking  through  a  hippy-­‐ear  film,  watching  the  extras  walking  up  the  road  around  you…better  than  being  indoors…you’ve  got  the  history  of  art  and  culture  from  every  part  of  the  world  to  feed  you  quickly.    Funny,  how  you  have  that  habit,  of  living  like  you  still  have  nothing.  Cutting  out  food  except  for  cigarettes,  coffee  and  cheese  on  toast,  out  to  get  some  milk,  -­‐old  habits  die  hard-­‐          When  there  was  a  small  box  to  live  in.  I  have  Vertigo,  it  was  scary  to  be  at  the  10th  floor  of  the  tower-­‐block,  scary  to  get  into  the  lift,  if  there  were  other  people.  He  didn’t  like  the  gypsies,  but  he  liked  the  Kiss  (Klimt)…Despite  having  a  turn-­‐table  and  bugging  the  neighbours,  the  ones  who  ran  the  council  tower  block  or  something,  like  security  guards,  didn’t  do  an  f-­‐ing  thing,  when  the  man  upstairs,  who  was  a  electrician  actually,  I  saw  him  go  up  the  lift  past  me,  the  door  opened,  huge  thick  black  glasses,  under  white-­‐white  hair,  an  evil  at  all  costs…when  he  in  fact,  left  the  television  full  blast,  all  hours.  Waking  up  with  a  rushing  loud  shouting  debate  inside  my  head.    That  was  about  politics.  This  is  all  my  little  collection  of  stories  lets  end  it  here,  and  post  it  up,  until  the  next  experiment…