Thursday, April 30, 2009

Random belligerence

When I lived in a basement flat with french windows that opened out onto a paved garden of interstitial weeds (coblions, dandicocks and sticky peter) I would sleep sound through summer nights with the top window open.

Until one night, when the dark had closed in as much as it could over the sodium bowls of glare from streetlamps placed in ranks from this street to another.

That night I heard a scrape on the transom in the wood and glass of the window above the doors.

Some hunched drug burglar was trying to scrape face into my rented place.

Now, I am not small, not unstudied in the practical arts of shouting and, with spittle, making out I am nastier than I am.

So I shouted something, bleared up out of bed and careered to the door.

The fucker burglar twat collapsed off the window, and I chased him down the road.

Which would have been justifiable, except I sleep naked.

So I chased this teenage burglar for about half a mile before I realised that a naked man chasing a teenager at 4 in the morning may need special explaining.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

The salient mechanicals

Time to dust this off

I have seen brass, clockwork tanks running over the fields hereabouts in Farnak; that initial enthusiastic lurch over trench and mound before winding down, main gun oil vomiting one shell after another until the plastic belly is spent. And then they stop, guns wilting, until the infantry comes up behind and, in practised whirls, wind up the main spring so the tank's wheels get whirring enthusiasm to overtop the next rise.

So destruction in front comes in waves, at running pace, as blue-uniformed, spike-helmeted, Albonian infantry run up behind, the salient mechanicals.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

sixteen years

Gone in a moment. You can't disconnect completely if you have spent most of your adult life with one person.

That's the nasty fucking truth of parting. You think it's ok and passed, and you think it's ok and gone.

Clearly it's not. Clearly it's in my head banging bits off the inside whilst I walk, and ignore the sunshine and mist rising up off the harbour, and just remember all the unjust things I did.

And therefore I have to agree, that's ok, that ended just there.

Doesn't make it any less shit though.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

What's the point?

Of being good at my job

Means I'm good at dealing with mouthbreathing fuckwits

Who daily suck out all the joy of solving problems

If the problems can be pointed at, and pointed out, it was your fuckwittery that made it a problem in the first place?

Stop. Please stop. You're making my brain bleed.

Everywhere I look

There's black avenues with really frightening, poisonous bushes hiding knify midgets in them

And I know I shouldn't say they are "really frightening" as a kind of shortcut to narrative fear without explaining that

So how about this?

Each one is made out of green teeth, and each one hides in its leaf crown a mouth?

And as you run down, tired, eventually sitting on the cold ground, you see out of the corner of your eye (because the front of your eye is bitten off by things you don't want to see) the one who has your heart on his sleeve?

Nice to see you, he says, to see you see sliced

It's a kind of 70s compere serial killer Generation Game allusion

No less dead in the fox eyes for that

The end

That's it then. Last vestige of connection gone. Cheers, ta. Sixteen years finally laid to rest. Damn.