I can't help feeling I've been cheated. Peeling back the albescent wallpaper, I find gaudy marks of dull paint daubed willy-nilly across the pocked walls, their initial outward smoothness and calmness now a grotesque parody of this monstrously tainted space.

The anger rises within me, but then subsides.

They're just as human as I am (if you prick them, do they not bleed?), just as horrified as I am by the prospect of debt and credit and damnation and death. I'll forgive them. They've made what's theirs of this space on this earth. It's all a loving human can ask.

She just couldn't be late. Her date with the lovely Mr. Enfield was far too important to miss.

He was sleek and cool like steel (or such was the comparison she'd always made), never going off without warning, always calm and calculated. He just clicked with her - it was automatic from the moment she fell into his sight. He knew all her soft spots - always cracking jokes, a barrel of laughs. A real hot shot.

Maybe she'd never properly taken stock of the situation. She slipped off her shoe.

She simply couldn't resist Lee's charm.

Fade to black.

A fart in a lift

Goodness me. What's this? I hate this dim light, I can't see. I wonder if that man knows his label's poking out. He's probably distracted by something. Maybe his wife's having a baby. I suppose that would explain the nervous glancing and the sweaty wrists. Why is everyone looking at him? They should be comforting him, or even congratulating him - that's no way to treat a father-to-be. Oh. I see. Har-de-har. Very funny. That's disgusting, it really is, and in an enclosed space too. What's that pinging sound? No, don't open that door, don't-

ok go and

fine sure

ok ok ok i promise i wont come on i wont if you dont want me to

fine if youre going to be like that i wont

youre just paranoid and guilt tripping me into making some stupid promise

yes you are youre fucking ridiculous youre just making this harder than it needs to be so you can dominate the bloody

no shut up youre making me the villain all of a sudden so i wont laugh at whatever it is you bloody well have to

what

you honestly mean that

what the

you

Enlightenment.


im going to tell you something

and i dont want you to laugh

no you really must promise not to

well remember that time when i told you about my infection and you laughed yes so you need to promise this time

why wont you

thats ridiculous of course im not

just stop youre not helping

no im not im sorry i just

thats it i love you

i said i love you

yes i mean it i mean it with all my heart

no dont say anything i cant do it this way

ssh just sit and think

The albatross scudded low over the water, its wingtips never rising more than a few inches above the steely corrugated surface. The fog surrounding it gave it the lightness of a whisper as it cleft the sea air like a papercut.

The boat ducked and bowed gently as it was borne by the current through the impenetrable fog. Its passenger looked around as the whisper sliced past him, then up as it wheeled overhead. Fumbling for the heavy contraption by his feet, the mariner kept his eye upon the bird as it soared. He knew not how he betrayed himself.

The brief, mechanical click and the sharp rush of air were enough time for the mariner to realise his mistake. Whether he had aimed well or not was in the hands of God.

The arrow pierced the bird's side, meeting only token resistance as feather met feather and wood felt the tang of blood. The albatross was thrown from its path like a wandering sheep, its wings no longer oscillating gloriously in the snowy light.

But not a sound was made. As though the albatross knew its fate, it wilted from the sky and met the water with a slap.

That solitary sound rent the mariner's soul in two, the guilt raining down upon him like hallowed fire. He stood pinned to the spot, clawing at the trigger of his crossbow as if to retract its deathly cargo from its resting place, motionless, dumb, unable even to blink.

But suddenly the sun burned with such strength that the fog, which had shielded his sin from all sight, vanished like the falling of a gossamer veil, confirming the presence of the still body, its outline rippling gently in the current.

The mariner sank to his knees, his heart a broken urn.

    Carnegie Hall, 1938

Start with that crunchy, throbbing Krupa. Let it simmer. Stir in a dash of Ellman, James, and Griffin, quickly followed up with a healthy dollop of Ballard and McEachern. Wrap in some of that classy European stuff - Schertzer and Koenig are just perfect, with Rollini and Musso getting that slightly deeper flavour in. Now get it on the stage and fold in some Reuss and Goodman minor, heat it 'til it's red hot and sprinkle lightly with Stacy. And, of course, top with a generous helping of Goodman major.

Oh if I could sing, sing, sing.

Is drinking blood bad for you? I hope not.

I've always loved its taste, its dull, metallic roundness running in rivulets across my tongue, savoury yet sweet, a clandestine dish longed for in secret.

I remember that first scarlet glistening, a perfect sphere forming on the end of my finger before losing tension and running carmine into the shade of my hand, before my gormandizing tongue sought out its pleasures, leaving a glimmering, florid trail in its wake.

But now I've restricted myself too long. I must gorge on that red nectar, and with this knife I shall take it.

I stroke her neck, my wondrous hands inflamed by her very touch, whispering into her, hearing my thoughts echoed in bright airy tones, my fingers weightlessly transgressing up and down every inch of her, gently pressing and releasing in places I know she'll be sweetest, twisting and intertwining as our bodies become one, heads thrown back in a moment of pure....

But her body is hollow, her neck wooden and her head unthinking. My pulse slows, and I refrain. Music can try, but nothing can substitute you. You and only you are what I need. I am alone. I weep.

How much does a heavy heart weigh? Well, apparently the average is 300 grammes for males and 200 grammes for females.

But what makes a heart heavy (aside from cholesterol and built-up fat, that is)? If music is the food of love, then it sits very heavy within me, resolutely refusing to move, for I have gorged on it to sate my overwhelming passion.

The thought of you yokes my heart with a longing that cannot be traded like a commodity, nor be killed like a man, nor be lost like an ideal. Your beauty sits astride all I see.

There was a time when writing on someone's wall was called vandalism.

There was a time when poking someone who you didn't know that well would have been taken as harassment.

There was a time when if something was cool it was because you weren't wearing a jumper.

There was a time when if you tweeted you were definitely a bird.

There was a time when swagger was a verb associated with obnoxious or dastardly fictitious characters.

There was a time when n***** was a word used with malice, not with faux-comradeship.

Where the bloody hell did that time go?

I'm sure you didn't want it this way.

You lie there, your breaths slow like silt slipping over a waterfall, your gently rising chest pushing against the thinning film which keeps you from me.

My index finger touches your toe. Your feet feel cold, but you can't move.

I caress your fingertips with mine. You can't feel your arms, but it doesn't matter.

I kiss your chest, my lips barely touching the downiness of your skin. You shudder a little, a last struggle against the cold, then sigh.

I take you by the hand and walk you into the darkness.

He knew he was the only one. No other could replace him. Yet his back suffered from his titanic load, his arms ached and his shoulders trembled like the breaths of a newborn baby.

'Can they really think I can bear it,' he wondered, his salt-encrusted eyelids crunching slightly, lashes beating away another rivulet of sweat. 'How long do they think they can keep on burning, killing, raping, stealing, cheating, burning, laying waste to everything before them?'

But the people kept on burning, killing, raping, stealing, cheating, burning and laying waste to everything before them. Atlas shrugged, struggled silently onward.

Shooting Up

zip rip crease slide pop ow trickle wipe bloop-bleep ... 4 ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... bleep-bloop yank tinkle snap grip gnash clickety-click flick-flick-flick tense plunge breathe ... 4 ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... tap tap rattle done.

i mean you just cant elp it can yer its like a matter of life or death its not easy as wot you think wanting to stop yer jus cant yer jus gotta keep goin dont yer id stop if i could but i just cant you know wot i mean i fuckin ate bein diabetic

    The Lover

You see him but you don't know him. You touch him but you don't feel him. You breathe him but you don't smell him. You love him but you don't sense it.

He wraps around you, his coruscating shadow draping over you, his voice a pleasant memory, the smile tipping the corners of your mouth.

His passion radiates from your eyes, his vivaciousness springing in your step, his ambition twisting round your little finger.

He is with you all your life, from your conception to your inexistence, his footsteps echoing silently behind you, immersing you in his love.

    The First

The dull rumbling overhead is but a whisper, the transition between concrete and sky a stitch of colour. The flecked shadows of the trees collide and waltz around on the floor, stopping short of the austere, unmoving bridge, resolute in the clenching cold.

Lips, quavering and tense, brush, unsure of themselves, withdraw slightly. A grain of sand falls, simultaneously a moment and forever. The reunion comes, deep pink meeting like tessellating petals, nerves inflamed by the mutual taste, fingers grasping for purchase, warmth spreading from flushed faces.

A neural photo is taken. A kiss never painted, lingering heavily.

I've been told before that I have an aversion to pretty girls.

I'm not quite sure what to feel. Either that's an insult to my taste, or an insult to your......face. Taking such words as an insult to both, I'd say that certainly the latter isn't true.

Regardless, the statement is (in context) irrelevant. What matters in influencing the interpersonal attraction between two people are the feelings of the persons concerned, not of an observer. Only the knowledge of your perception of my perception of you could possibly convince me to any other persuasion to that which I already hold.

I was given legs that I should run, run far and fast, taking great leaps with which none could outdo me, hurdling any obstacle in my way.

I was given ears that I should hear, preanticipate, outmanoeuvre and evade mine enemies so that I might live and prosper, I should take advice but never orders.

I was given eyes that I should see, observe all that lay before me like a god on my throne, ruling my earthly kingdom, commander of all in my vision.

But none can run
none can hear 
none can see

when the black rabbit comes.

Entering the hall I recall thinking of the room like a cell. A membrane of people stretched round the extremities of the room, as if the walls were the only thing preventing them from running far, far away. Little chloroplastic children darted across the edges of the room, and a large vacuous space was left entirely alone in the middle, no one entering it for fear of incurring the embarassing command of the entire audience's attention. I quickly procured a drink from somewhere and scuffed my feet uncomfortably, wanting to disappear.

But then the band rose, and the music began.