These poems and stories are free for you to view, but should not be reproduced for any commerical purposes or altered in any way without written permission from the author.
They have been written over a number of years by several authors
Base Group comes to an Understanding
The Dream, The Voice, The Hopelesness
Special Assignment #12006A-42D
I believe,
It's enough,
To do what you can,
And make the World,
A better place.
(Absent friends)
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder",
Absence makes the phone bill longer,
Absence makes my feelings wander,
Far away from here;
*
And where I go the road's not slow;
No busses to be caught.
And British Rail cannot derail,
My speeding train of thought.
*
Absence makes the arms stay empty,
And fills the eyes with tears.
I know you've got your life to live,
But I still
Wish you were here ...
(On a train journey)
This steel array
Shrinks this nation
To a headlong rush
Through villages and towns
On a dark night
Through lightened cities
Past dreams of people
And ancient history
And good and bad
And a thousand lifetimes
All stone-entombed
By roof, road or gravestone.
*
This flickering screen
Shrinks this planet
To a sound bite culture
For a billion souls
To judge still more
Though not involved
And still sleep safely
And still sleep safely?
As good and bad
Are willing vessels
Like ready tombs
For self destruction.
*
This brilliant mind
Shrinks all mystery
To a superstition
As the wisdom of ancients
And a law unenforced
And a beauty untaxed
Is "the dark ages"
And pleasure is business
And all life bows
To the mighty mammon...
*
You called it the Age of Enlightenment
You destroyed my world.
Words flow from another pen,
As seconds tick from clocks and watches.
The wind rustles my paper,
And clouds blow over suns, and moons.
Light dim, and brighten;
Memories fade, then re-awaken,
'til the wind blows stronger still,
And we're free as Autumn leaves.
Now in clarity I see
My life before
Was a tumbling spiral
Towards this precise moment.
The room holds its breath
While mine catches in my throat
As he moves above me.
This pain is a beautiful
Black butterfly woman
Dancing while he is
Breaking doors and
Travelling into the soft darkness.
Soon the butterfly has flown
And the music begins.
Sweet and gentle
Turns to mirrored beats.
Ocasionally I
Lose
My balance
In a stumble
But the dance sweeps me
Back again to whirl.
My dizzy breath
Quickens in line with
This created world
And urgency spreads his fingers
And breeds to a blossom.
Sparks splutter
And suddenly everything
Is burning.
My voice cries out from
Nowhere.
Then the world flows down a grassy bank
To quiet cigarettes
And the happy sleep
Of two.
In the silence
We offered gifts to the
Fairy Shrine
And the candle burned
In the silence
Its flame grew
Until the whole room
Was golden,
Sweet as syrup
In the silence
Forgotten doors opened
And light poured in,
Flowing and burning
In the silence
We reached and touched
The other flames;
Gently, awe-filled, like
Children holding precious things
In the silence
Perfect, warm silence
We shared bright shards of God
And made the small room
Sacred forever.
Fly bird,
Fly free;
You do not labour,
Or fill in forms,
Or go to the DSS.
You lucky beggar!
Birthday poem,
Years are going,
Time is passing,
I'm not asking!
Past and future;
All eye can see...
But today's
The day for me!
Blind,
And you can't see.
Cold rain falls,
Upon this sea.
The shores that seemed so close,
Have all but faded.
And the soul,
In mutiny cries;
"Give up,
Go back,
No more;
It's easier"
Blind, blind.
I am blind, blind
So blind, blind:
Why can't I believe,
What's so obvious ?
It's Summer in my heart,
And he sings of golden shores,
Lapped by long twilight waves.
Ray-dreaming warm-shut-eyed murmuring.
Saphire-dappled cool-slumbering.
The mind (and almanac) defer;
"Mean time means...
Ice-grasping chilling,
Rain-bluster sniffling,
Storm-buffet blowing
And the counting of days."
My heart shrugs,
Gliding cycle-smooth over the warm tarmac,
Each turn of the wheels measuring out Summer,
Pro-rata.
Knowing inside that Summer is in just this second,
Then just this second...
And just for a moment,
The wind,
Drops.
(Adaptation of Christian communion)
This is my heart,
Broken for you.
These are my tears,
Shed for you.
Accept them all of you,
And turn away from all that is evil;
Your two-faced piety,
Your empty praise,
Your intellectual arguments as to who I am ...
*
Am I worth one day only?
Am I only words?
Don't I reveal who I am?
*
You are my body,
Can you break too?
*
You ask for forgiveness,
You are forgiven,
Go in peace - I have promised.
(Inspired by a Chinese proverb and a Quaker meeting)
It's better to light a candle,
Than point spotlights at the darkness.
It's better to leave an open door,
Than retreat to your place of safety.
It's better to speak a welcome,
Than to press an invitation.
It's better to be a servant,
Than to give what you can afford.
I live in your world,
And you brand me with your icons,
And value me in pieces of paper,
And electronic impulses.
And you believe,
That a few millivolts,
Sent down a wire,
To a machine,
In a room,
Somewhere in a city,
10,000 miles away...
Will make me happy.
(Leaving)
This could be the last time,
We ever speak this way:
You are going forwards,
But I have got to stay.
I used to imagine,
That things would stay the same,
But maybe something would be missing,
If nothing ever changed.
I can keep on climbing,
But it's never high enough.
I can keep on trying,
But it never sees me through.
There's dreams and illusions,
And castles up there.
Nothing but mists in my way.
Tonight they are all listening
To the one who is screaming th loudest.
The one whose arms, with theatrical gesture
Are flung the widest.
The one whose surface appears most troubled.
Walking backwards into the darkness.
I want your eyes to watch my stepping way.
To be my talisman, my harbour, my home.
I want to know you love and see only me.
Pick me out from every crowd.
When you wake, drenched in moonlight,
I want my name to be on your lips.
I want to walk through your dreams,
Wear your love around my shoulders.
They could mime their dramas forever
If you would be my shelter.
I want to be alone at the eye of your storm,
At the front of your mind.
In your blood.
By your side.
Sometimes I tire of small talk,
And evenings watching the TV,
And I yearn your company,
And unadulterated words.
Where discussion needn't become argument;
Views are surveyed and respected.
Where no one's ears need burn,
Nor any side neglected.
And I'm glad of our relationship,
Because I know it isn't "like that",
But it doesn't stop it being precious,
And so special to me.
You may not understand me,
Even I don't understand;
How I can love you,
And leave you.
Have you,
Or hold you.
Guide,
Or control you.
Crush you,
Or lift you;
'cause I'm tender,
And brutal.
Gentle,
And vicious.
Selfish,
Caring...
And so unsure.
Desperate,
Is a sorry state to be.
It makes me want to fall in love,
With everyone I see.
Desperate,
Is like a heavy load.
It pulls me off in its direction,
Everywhere I go.
Fly from the black box city
Which categorises and assesses.
Up into the bright air.
Formulate, create a God
And fly with her.
She will be the truest truth of all.
Believe in her magical
Freedom and innocence.
Power to the happy spirit
And fly as close to the sun as you can.
You are an unsolvable problem.
You are a knot which has no beginnings.
A dry rain,
A sweet pain.
You are these things because
I do not know you,
Yet when you pass by me,
You burn me with a fire
And leave others untouched.
Though I have never heard you think
I believe you to be all good.
I feel you should be a close friend
Yet all I can find to ask is
"What is your name?"
When I am near you
I wish to be far away.
When I am far away,
I wish I could touch you.
Your crowd my thoughts
Yet leave me empty.
And you have a great power ovr me
Which you do not know you posess.
There is enough power in an eye
To turn the universe inside out.
Eyes shine out soul light.
Watch an eye for a time
And you may find yourself swimming
In a glassy sea;
Flung up against angry rocks;
Brought to your knees;
Raised up to the skies.
You may find yourself dancing
On the land with wind-music
In your ears.
You may find yourself flying
With fireworks inside.
You may find yourself lost
And your feet echo in
Empty houses and
You don't know who you are
Or where you are
Walking to anywhere.
The cold wind blows and the willows wind.
The ivy claws at the castle walls.
And the story grows over darkened years,
'til a royal child in her slumber lies.
And we talk of a prince who will break the spell,
With a kiss to restore the forgotten days...
But we grow so old,
And we try to pretend,
That we don't believe in fairy tales.
I feel small
When I stand alone on the beach
And feel the wind
And see all that water
When I begin to count the stars
And get lost after twenty three.
When I watch the ants carry
Leaves to make homes you never get to see.
When I think how many
Tiny babies are catching their first
Breaths.
When I am told about school desks
Being made out of molecules.
When I walk along a street
Full of people busy with their own lives.
But most of all
I feel small
When I think about
You.
So it's just a small thing;
Something going right for a change.
But I've been searching,
Worrying,
For hours-weeks-days,
Looking everywhere.
So now I've found you,
It means so much.
And you can't stop me,
Being happy for a while.
See, Man;
I love,
I care,
I sympathise,
I understand,
I listen,
I feel;
Free.
It's not just a Freudian slip;
You've got Freudian eyes,
And Freudian ears too.
'cause everything you see or hear,
You get the wrong idea.
World, why do I bother?
Geometric,
Asymmetric,
Mechanistic;
You are.
Understanding,
All demanding,
Never ending,
So far.
Coincidental,
Nothing special,
So ephemeral;
Your way.
Transformation,
Revolution,
My solution;
New day.
Anger,
Trace it,
Find the root - the source;
Not to be crushed,
Burnt or cut:
Lay down the axe, axeman.
Danger,
Emotions,
Warning lights - so strong.
Handle me with care,
Love and warmth:
Don't initiate the countdown.
Red light,
Password,
Carefully - don't hurt me.
You might regret it,
Painfully;
Feel the strength of tempered soul,
And the implosion of heart's fury.
The scribbled page lying in her desk
Belonging only to her own abstracted thought
Has torn apart complacent day
And thrown me backwards
Into a room
Into my twelve year old self.
His letter substitutes itself.
One side is impeccably neat,
Unnaturally so, for him;
Letters forced upright
From their left ways slant,
Thoughts arranged,
The seemingly inevitable
Stared at head on.
The next side, a scrawling battle
With words, drugs,
All the feelings of a life
In a mirrored facsimile
Witnessing the things we never saw.
His brother: who had shielded him
Through all the storms (his words)
Except this last great one (mine).
The frantic list of those he loved
Mike & Glynn,
Sandra & David.
His mother
My mother
My brother.
And me. That small note meant
For my future self.
How much did it hurt
To look into his child's future?
To realise he could not share it?
To have let that clumsy goodbye
Before school be the last goodbye.
And then the tailing off
The pen slipping. Then slipping
Into sleep.
Battle lost, an empty space
Try not to forget the face.
I dream with open eyes
Of living in a peaceful house.
Of living brightly with pictures and doings
Around an inner well of shady space.
They come to visit and may say
Our house is peaceful
But they do not lie awake
At night and feel its silent sobbing
Soaked in from seven years of grief
Grief of his love and the loves of his love.
When she cried, as she used to often
I could bring it to an end.
There was an end at least.
But now she and the house
Grieve silently through
Stifling inaction
And the tears fall dead around us
From the sad, sad house
That has cradled us
Traded its happy centre
For a permanent shudder of
Uncontrollable loss.
They sat together that evening,
As they sat every evening
To drink see-crooked drink
And hear what wasn't there to hear.
He does not remember where the flames came from
But next there was a tumble-roar
And a big bright tiger was
Hungrily eating her
Smooth, perfect skin,
Turning it to paper, and to water
And to red, red wine.
How could he stop such a tiger
With only his thick slow hands
For a time she was away in a
Place in the city with doctors and
Everyone said that it
Was best for her to stay.
But he wanted her with him
So she came home.
And now there is this:
Her body laid on pal leaves on the porch
Because the white tablets had
Chased the pain away.
But the paper/water/wine once-skin
Would not last.
So he sits with the bottle in his hands
And all he sees is the tiger.
And all he thinks is
What should he have done
With his thick slow hands?
And he cries and cries because
It hurts so much now she has gone.
Don't leave me here;
Locked up alone.
I am sadness.
You shut the door,
And walked away.
I am anger.
The longer you leave me,
The harder I'll pound you.
I am violence.
You knew all along,
There's someone who needs me.
I was love.
I can see it in your eye.
I can feel it when I'm close to you.
It sets you apart from the rest.
Not a religion or a philosophy.
Haven't we all got that ?
It's not the things you do,
Or the things you give.
It's something I need;
Something I believe.
I took the toll of yesterdays,
And kept them all inside.
I filled my hidden caverns,
With all the tears I cried.
So scared of what's tomorrow.
So frightened of today.
Of all the words I've spoken,
Its the hardest thing to say;
That I love you,
And I feel it too.
'til it's slaughtered by the things I hide,
To make you turn away.
Yes I love you.
But all I can do,
Is fill my life with wandering,
And wonder who you are.
I'm just in between;
A strange state of affairs.
Don't feel like a sinner,
Don't look like a saint!
I know that I hurt you,
Some things that do.
But I wish I could see it,
Like if I were you.
Then maybe I'd realise,
How little I know you.
And I'd understand,
How much that I owe you.
But until I meet you,
I'll never be perfect;
Not even close!
Just,
Me.
They found a carving
Deep in the dark, dark cave
Which changed that silent place
For me.
The ancient cold was rediscovered, now.
Over centuries
The stalactites had grown alone
And just as they had been left
The spirits had waited
Huddled around their picture.
Now they had been pushed,
Tumble, tumble
Out into the air.
While I ate I saw
The children playing
Among the trees
And watching me steaily.
The sunlight fell
Onto the heads of the women
Cooking in their
Pots (now broken on the ground).
In that hazy afternoon
The wall of time
Grew thinner for a while
And they shared
Their home with me.
The schools march in
The streets today
Their clumsy sackcloth mimicry
Is how Honduras pays
Homage to the brave
(And dead) Lempira*
Deep in the drums' echo
A voice speaks of a
Proud and strong nation
Broken and trampled
To integration
Tearing the mother-earth
From her children
So that both cry out in pain
At the night that smothers them.
The soothing drums
Dismiss a repetition.
But still you can hear the
Children crying
At 3pm on a market day
With empty beer bottles in their hands
And caustic tears burning
Their proud brown skin
Will this marching bring
Their mother back?
*Indigenous people of Honduras before the Spanish invasion.
You could take me anywhere;
A thousand miles of steel.
Local, Intercity,
Depending how I feel.
I've travelled many journeys,
But everywhere I go,
There's always love, and people,
Well, it goes to show ...
Junk!
What did you say?
Hold it tight,
Don't throw it away.
Don't build up a pile,
To rust in the rain.
Take good care,
To make it shine.
'Junk',
Is precious to me;
When there's nothing,
To believe;
When I see all the things,
You've brought me through,
I believe that you'll help me,
This time too.
I have a fly-by-night
Soul kite,
Red and beautiful
It soars and
Swoops.
I am proud of my kite.
I want to share
My kite with you.
To watch it together.
Stand and gaze
Hand in hand
Yes and your kite too
I have seen it
Fly over me
Before.
But my kite
Likes the dark
It won't come out
It just will not.
Because it is a fly-by-night kite
When there is no one else there,
At least, not you.
You can tell me to cheer up,
Or say that I shouldn't worry.
Even say that it's easy,
And you're having a great time.
And I'll cope if you tell me,
To put on a brave face.
But please don't you ever,
Call it a game.
Go on Man,
Pretend you don't feel it.
Kick slam and punch,
But don't you dare cry.
Go on try it,
Can you really?
You don't know the meaning of the word.
I'm over the rainbow,
With the rain on my face.
I'm up in the clouds,
With the wind in my hair.
I'm under the sun,
With warmth in my hands.
I'm all in the dark...
With stars in my eyes.
Sometimes I wish,
My arms were so long,
They'd stretch a million miles;
Give you all,
A great big hug,
And bring back happy smiles.
Sometimes I wish,
I was so strong,
I'd stop the wrong they do.
But though I'm not,
I've still got,
You.
Languidly she lay
On the daytime murky harbour sea
(Transformed by midnight to a silky black).
Cloud wrapped, her body turned
And glowed
Soft as rippled chocolate.
But
When the clear bight beat an
Indian path down to the earth
She spun heavenly smoke rings
On the blank slate water,
Her white fingertips tracing ancient
Moonshine runes.
Night curtains backed the bright star words
Moonbeams falling from eternity
Talking the talk of dreams and centuries.
I Am,
Changing.
This is,
My Life.
Not,
A History,
Not,
A Dream,
Not,
Completed.
I think,
This is Freedom.
In my house there's love,
But the door is shut.
In my house is peace,
But we're arguing about it.
In my house there's charity,
But you're knocking on my door,
And I'm sitting inside,
Feeling really guilty,
Not listening at all.
(A forest walk)
I was created as part of you,
But now I walk your leafy avenues,
As a tourist;
A visitor with a camera round my neck,
Searching for my "ancestors",
To shoot,
Pin,
Or press.
We have grown apart,
You and I.
You content to weave your endless cycles,
Knowing that it works out best long term,
While I,
Seeing my weakness and frailty,
Always try to improve what's beautiful;
Making models and images to replace the original,
Changing everything for the sake of change ...
If you speak in a voice I can fathom,
As I watch what is my ancestry and family,
You might ask
"Why can you never be content with what you are ?"
I would have no answer.
I don't want your apology;
I want a shoulder to cry on.
I don't want an explanation;
I want a hand to hold.
I don't need understanding;
I just want some sympathy.
I don't want a solution;
Just a warm embrace.
Call it a deterrent,
Or a means of defence.
Go and tell the people,
Where their money's been spent.
Tell them who to fight for,
And tell them who to hate.
Shout about the victory,
With nothing on your plate.
And I can visualise them,
Breaking through the grey sky,
Flashing blinding thunder on the land.
Another frozen wasteland,
In an indifferent sky,
And the silent majority never said a word.
I love you,
As a person,
And I care,
About your feelings.
I don't want,
To possess you.
And I try,
To understand.
But every time I look at you,
My eyes twist and mind wanders.
I'm scared of what I'll make you,
And I hate to be a man.
The way to my heart is shut.
(Shutting up the pain inside)
You can keep what you've got.
(Can't forget the times they lied)
Too many times,
I've let them stay.
Now they're trying to hide,
From the things you say.
But sorry ...
No admittance to you now,
No admittance to you.
I don't want to send your life away,
But what if I trust the things you say ?
You think it's a story,
But it could be a saga.
You call it a fable,
But I need philosophy.
You whistled a tune,
And I wanted a symphony.
You want to go paddling,
But I want oceanography.
There's another golden idol,
On the silver screen.
The latest new production,
From the machine.
Reproduction,
From another generation.
Play on your emotions,
And your credit card.
But did you hear them say,
That this is something to rely on?
A rags-to-riches,
Or a second chance?
Utopia fades,
At the flick of a switch.
And Life goes on and on.
Driving in my car today
I passed some people
Gathered around a man
His body was shaking
As death crept upon him
Sideways, like a crab
The gathered faces cried
My love! My love!
Dear God , not yet!
So many things we haven't done!
So many things I left unsaid!
And still he is going,
Shifting through their
Grasping, desperate hands;
Now here; now dying; now gone.
No drama, drums or bright lights
No climaxing crescendo
Merely here, then not.
And so must we all go -
Slipping into that dark night,
Mostly with no chance to
Rage against the dying light.
Mostly just candles
Blown out by a
Gentle wind.
Shaking,
Raging,
Shivering,
Caged-in,
Shrinking,
Thinking;
Why me ?
Next time it's raining,
And you are complaining;
Spare a thought as you adjust
Your umbrella:
Without precipitation,
And liquid condensation,
The Englishman at large would never
Start a conversation !
Silence awakens,
(Life dreams uneasily,
Under night's cloudy eiderdown).
Rain-spattered pane,
Reflects no stars.
Grey-dark contemplation.
I wish...
(or is it imagination?)
To dream...
With you in midsummer starlight,
Our shadows merging,
Towering.
Hush words,
Listen to the silent water;
Inky mirror pools.
Trembling -
Take my hand.
Stand on the edge of infinity,
And step into the stars.
(Unrequited love...)
People are always telling me,
That I'm better off without it.
I'd always reply
"Oh, that's fine for you to say,
You've loved and been loved.
You've got perspective,
But I feel two-dimentional."
*
But now I'm semi-in-love again,
I can see their point of view:
I mean, here am I,
Grown man apparently,
Finding you saying "Hello" in my dreams,
And wandering through every thought
I set my mind to;
As sloppy as those repeats they show
on Saturday afternoons.
*
Oh I've felt like this before,
And there's always Reason to contend:
Well, you'll have to leave some time,
And I don't know how long I'll be around.
But I'm more than Reason;
Scuttled in this flood of feelings.
And I can't help it if I love you...
Bring in the clowns,
And the commuters;
Farm workers,
Mechanics,
Doctors and drivers.
Bring in the travellers,
The housebound,
And homeless.
Bakers,
And burglars,
Bankers and divers.
*
And don't bother to bring a bottle,
Or a spare pair of shoes.
'cause there's plenty,
Here to share.
Here on the beach I like to be,
Safe from the roaring of the sea,
Watching the rolling of the stones,
From a safe distance !
Here on the beach I like to stand,
Watching the boats come in to land,
Feeling free like wind and waves;
I'm happy again ...
Splash, Crash, Smash.
I like you, Sea.
Dash, Bash, Flash.
Roll, Bowl, Crawl,
The way you move,
Flow, Grow, Slow.
Slish, Slosh, Bosh,
The way you sound,
Criss, Cross, Mosh.
Round, Ground, Crowned,
The way you look.
I like you, Sea.
Hiss ...
Milk's boiling over!
Turn down the gas.
Ouch!
Cold water!
Turn on the tap,
A little too hard ...
Oops!
*
Where's the cloth?
Get a new one,
From the cupboard.
Ouch!
Needs a tidy,
When there's time.
*
Wash the spoons,
Stir the sauce,
Check the oven.
Ouch!
Should've used oven gloves.
*
Lay the table,
Dirty fork;
That won't do.
Better give it a polish.
*
Time to dress,
They'll be here soon.
Nice and smart.
Got to give the right impression.
*
Where's my shoes?
The posh ones.
The ones I never wear.
That I got in Stead and Simpson:
They're really uncomfortable,
But they match this jacket.
Ouch !
A bit too small.
Hope I can take them off before too long.
*
Oh no !
I forgot the vegetables.
It's 7:11,
And 17 seconds.
He'll be here soon.
(I hope he's not too early)
*
Back downstairs,
Stupid shoes;
Ouch ouch ouch,
Ouch!
Why is fashion so uncomfortable?
*
Phew!
I've finished
3 minutes (and 27 seconds) ahead of schedule.
Feel a bit shaky;
I hate waiting.
It's like being at the dentist!
*
Ring Ring Ring
Telephone!
"Hello?"
"Hi, it's Steve. Just phoning to say that I can't come tonight:
I'm going out with Julie,
Down the pub."
*
Clunk.
*
"Great!",
Thank you so much.
I'll put the dishes back in the cupboard,
Watch our dinner go cold,
Throw the flowers out,
Fold up the tablecloth,
Put out the candles,
Put the food in the fridge.
*
And then I'll go upstairs,
With our bottle of wine;
(it cost me œ11.95 in Sainsburys!)
I'll chuck my clothes on the floor,
Sit on the bed.
And cry my eyes out.
You bloody sod!
The afternoon has
Been gently sifted by the
Trees to pure, clear light.
Mangoes lie dormant
In the dust like yellow suns
Dropped by a small child
The Freydo man could
Rake the yard, but seeing the
Mangoes he goes back to
Sleep, understanding
That the reverie of this hour
Should not be broken.
(Concerning religious paranoia...)
The lives around me shine,
But still I feel so alone;
I hear their voices call to you,
But mine has turned to stone.
*
I always seem to be,
The shadow in the crowd;
The sunshine clears the darkened sky,
With me the only cloud.
*
So many times I've tried,
But it always feels this way;
I feel so empty, cold, and lost,
In swirling mists of grey.
Sheep,
Would follow me,
If I was a shepherd;
In green pastures,
Or off a cliff!
When I'm a sheep,
And I walk away,
Thank you God,
For finding me.
(An E-mail friendship...
...which ended abruptly after meeting!)
There are so many questions,
Maybe I'd like to ask;
But I'm scared I might lose you,
If I take you to task.
*
Like, what are you feeling,
On the end of the line?
And if I saw you,
What would I find?
*
Sometimes I wonder,
What you would say,
If I told you I loved you,
In some sort of way.
*
I'm glad that you called me,
Out of the blue;
'cause it makes me feel special,
Talking to you.
*
So take care now,
'cause I care about you,
Though I've never met you,
I hope I do.
Sida o Vida?
Usted decida.
The sign stands, forgotten,
By the road-
It needs re-painting.
Cars fly past,
Illiterate.
We are a clean people;
This dirty disease does not
Apply to us.
It belongs to other lives.
We are safe with our
Black island sex.
And so instead it
Creeps stealthily onward,
Not existing.
Killing silently.
Slitting the throats of the
Innocent.
Murder in the dark.
(After leaving university)
Solitary,
I want to be sailing;
Free.
.
Overburdened,
The World still my anchor,
Unmoved.
.
Struggling,
These chains never break me.
Untamed.
.
Haunted,
By glimpses of freedom;
You'll never eclipse,
My Dream.
Why do you reprimand me,
And make me feel like a child ?
I'm Human,
And you should know how it feels.
.
And when I return,
Soaking and trembling,
Or wake up tomorrow,
Head pounding,
Don't say "Silly boy",
Or that it serves me right.
Do you think I don't know that ?
.
But if you speak with Love,
You will Love me,
And leave Me.
.
So I'll drink the bottle dry,
Or walk along the cliffs in the rain.
Maybe stay in and watch TV,
Or write reams of wretchedness ...
.
And I'll know that as I Am is,
Loved am I.
Some people say a poem,
Is nothing but words.
Some people say a life,
Is nothing but days.
Some people think these days,
Were nothing but memories.
But they're ready to recall,
And they'll always make me smile.
If you believe in God you can
Move mountains with your faith
And you will have lots of money
Because God will reward you tenfold
For your gifts to his church
Watch that tree standing there. See its
Leaves moving softly in the whispering wind.
God is loving, God is just
God created out of dust,
And to dust you will return
Then go to hell and burn and burn
Or fly to the sky to be with
Jesus in his golden city.
Have you seen the sea today?
Sapphire, peacock, magic blue as blue
We are the real church, you know,
Pentecost and spread the Word,
And go on Sundays to save your soul
From fire and really scarey things.
How come love goes so deep?
Like a river in an underground cave.
Don't swear, don't smoke, don't drink
And say your prayers
Listen to the silence. It is speaking of God
See my soul,
Deep inside,
Laughing,
At me.
It'll maybe change your view,
When you know that this is you,
Talking to you...
'cause I'm not real.
I'm just,
The empty space around you;
Pastel shades and water colours,
Ripped apart to black and white,
Filtering the altered images,
Coming in like birds of a feather.
Is it true?
Is it really,
You,
That I am talking to?
Or is it you,
That's getting through?
Talk to me,
Talk to you.
Talking to myself,
Helps me keep it to myself;
The thoughts inside of me,
Drifting between the colours I see.
(More unrequited love...)
I dialled your number,
And I put down the receiver,
Picked up a pen,
And wrote your number on a page
(Just in case I'd forgotten it).
Then I thought I'd get a glass of water
To make sure I wouldn't lose my voice,
And a chair,
Because I'd like to talk for a while.
I took a deep breath,
As I dialled you up ...
... and you were engaged.
(A comment on the Media)
Tell the World,
Tell the people,
Radio-TV-news.
Watch them all,
Turn their faces;
"We would never do a thing like that."
I'm a monster,
A sub-human.
You are perfect,
Not even capable of sin?
Would you believe me if I told you,
That you're just like me?
(To a friend)
Thanks - You made me smile,
Thanks - You spoke the truth,
Thanks - You let me know
That someone really needs me.
Some people say,
Sex,
Is just "the act".
But,
Sex is the actors
and the understudies,
The scene and the set,
Microwave evenings,
Learning the lines;
The props and the pantomime,
And the Long Walk,
From the room with the mirror,
And a star on the door.
The beat rises up through the floor
Shaking the roots of the room.
As I stand in the dark,
My eyes see the spark
Of the black man dancing.
His eyes are closed and his smiles goes deep
As the music washes his soul.
He moves with the rhythm,
Alive in the rhythm
The black man is dancing.
His mind sees each word that is sung
And his body pronounces the words.
Everything fades
But the song still remians
When the black man is dancing.
The beat is the beat of his heart,
The music runs gold through his veins.
He is closer to God
He begins to be God
When the black man is dancing.
I had a dream:
I was sleeping,
But it felt so real.
*
It was not of me;
Not my style.
But it made me afraid,
That that's what I am.
*
In the morning I realise;
"None of this has happened,
It was only a dream!",
But it fills my waking hours.
*
The memories are,
Falsified and fabricated,
But they fill me with disgust,
And self loathing.
*
I have another dream;
This time I'm not sleeping.
This is a happy dream.
*
So why does it seem so distant ?
Why does this dream falter,
Under Logic's gaze ?
*
The dream is you.
The Voice says;
"Don't worry,
It will fade,
The memories will depart,
They'll no longer trouble you,
Sleep in peace."
If I forget the pain,
I'll be glad.
But why must my happy dream,
Also be lost from recall,
Never explored or fulfilled ?
Am I not human too ?
I wonder upon occasion;
"Why does it always happen to me ?"
You're well bread,
Always the best taste.
When you pas-ty the side of me,
Oy-ster into a Whirl.
My mussels are chilled.
Mar-mite; I'm grilled.
The sand-wich is you.
Marinates through.
From my head,
To-ma-toes.
Silence is golden,
After the noise;
(Laughter like silver,
Diamond smiles).
When sunshine is hidden,
And hope is forsaken,
The greatest of treasures,
Are these memories we share.
Raising Hell.
Turning heaven upside down.
As the old-man-god
Wanes with the dying moon
She winks and goes up
And she sits
On a seat of purple
Raw and sweet
Sexy and innocent
God was made in the
Image of Eve
"Each one has its twin"
She shouts at the
Bewildered bible believers below
NOW IT'S MY GO
She stands now
In her partner's shoes
Takes a long, deep breath
Of Elation
And turns up the music.
Sometimes it's obvious,
Sometimes incredible,
Sometimes a spotlight,
Sometimes a fear.
Sometimes it's always,
And sometimes it's sometime,
But somehow it's always,
There.
These arms were made for holding,
To keep you safe from harm,
To tell you that I need you,
To love and keep you warm.
*
These lips were made for speaking,
To say that I love you.
These ears were made to hear you say,
That you love me too.
*
This heart was made for trying,
To treat you like I should,
And maybe I would tell you,
If I could...
(On the effects of modern culture)
This is subliminal,
This is the backwash.
This is not my dream;
This is not my motivation.
This is not my choice of appearance;
This is the emperor's wardrobe.
If this is progress,
I've changed my mind.
I'd like to paint a picture,
Not with paint or brushes;
I could try for hours,
I know it wouldn't do you justice.
So I pile up these words,
Jumbled and disordered,
To keep my hopes alive,
Replayed and recorded.
*
So my mind hits freeze frame,
Of questions can't answer.
And the landscape is completed,
With no Mona Lisa.
Why do I keep on hoping,
As years add up behind me,
That you might think I'm special,
Or that you'll ever find me?
*
So a canvas grey with maybe,
Like my pictures all before.
And I fear my hope is dying,
As they hang on every wall.
And I fear that if you heard me,
And things could turn out right,
That this picture is so faded,
It'd be lost to your sight.
*
So tell me why should I hope,
For love and affirmation?
Trains keep rushing by me,
Never stopping at my station.
I fear the slate grey,
Final picture's chiselled caption reads;
'No one could ever love him,
And no one ever did.'
A poem written after a visit to a railway station toilet. It's about how people can get inflated ideas of themselves (it wasn't his ego he was talking about !)
"Andy,
Incredibly large ego ..."
Seeks experienced people,
To sort him out.
*
I'm not homophobic,
To a large extent.
But you make me cringe,
Because you're well sad !
"To Save a Soul"
What shroud has been wrapped
Around this word?
Each time it comes I see
A sea of innocent blood.
Yet in that sea an image comes
Of thousands of empty, sad souls
Wandering repeatedly through their worlds
Each day.
See the other eyes turn away from them
Chased by
Door-knocking
Sin-promising
Repent-now fear.
How brighter seem so many things
Than chasing the unwilling to conform
But still there is this stream of
Limping, bitter, burning souls.
Quiet made of hate, not elation.
There is no use for a world without souls in it.
There is no use for souls with no world to put them in.
But surely the more souls there are
The better chance the world stands?
A world without souls stands
No chance at all.
Chase the wind,
Just like the Autumn leaves;
Try to touch the sky ...
You'll never reach the end,
Of your rainbow,
That way.
Turn your face,
And see.
Is anything real at all?
A poem about a visit to the National Portrait Gallery and Trafalgar square.
History tells me,
That these faces that look down,
Their eyes so condescending,
Are merely the visages,
Of human bodies,
Their mistakes and failures,
Shrouded in history
*
Vision would tell me,
Of artistic license;
The palette always lies.
The focus is framed.
How the eye can be wildered !
*
But this is Trafalgar,
And your bodies bronzed,
Your faces sculptured,
Your stance stifled ...
And as you look down,
I'll almost believe,
This is history.
It means so much,
When you can be You,
And I can be Me;
Deep or shallow,
Spoken or silent.
As I wander home,
At the end of the day,
I wonder;
"Maybe this is Truth."
She sits
In the doorway
Of the building
Which stands cold
And unsympathetic
(Yet clearly beautiful)
In the biting dark.
Traffic roars
Are silenced to zero
And she begins to sing.
She asks for no money.
Her song is not of that kind.
She is singing pure feelings,
Simple sadness
Comforting her
Against people's
Cold and bitter darkness.
Her song bites me gently
Whispering through dreams
Because I know
I could have but didn't.
Two days ago
Her name resurrected itself before me
When I tripped upon her poem in the paper.
This I hate!
That she still has things to say.
That she will always say them perfectly.
That she holds me in her web
After all these years
(Because if I didn't care, I wouldn't care now).
She dances through her poems
A whole and beautiful woman
(Not the twisted witch child I once knew)
She speaks of love, of deep purple kisses,
And I am jealous.
She will claim wronged,
And the world will fall on her side.
Articulate precisely
My battle scars.
(The ones she carved)
My hate hangs heavy in my heart
As she rises
I will sink
As she shines
I will be black bitter beneath her.
The eyes are not his
He speaks words he is aiming too highly with.
Before the fall is this
And yet his words may.
Just may.
Not fail him.
Where comes genius
In this small horizons world.
Not in our eyes
I am sure.
So that leaves us,
With him.
And his eyes are not his own.
Should I tell him this?
Or should I play his games
Or should I tell him and play.
I only do not play because I
Would hate to lose.
We only will ever win if we play.
I know my head is anointed
With the toil and tears of
Strong Women
Yet I cannot speak.
Why do I maintain an uneasy silence?
Waiting to speak
But doubting the worth of my words.
At the core of the centre
In the midst of my being
These words are my truth.
All that is in me,
All that has gone before me
Screams at me to
Proclaim them
But in the face of you men
I doubt the worth of my words.
Feminism is obsolete
We are all equal
The world lies within my grasp.
But my poems hide
Are hid. Shut in a
Secret book.
I doubt the worth of my words.
My life spark is in
My words, woven like a
Golden thread
And I still count their
Worth as nothing
Quietly I lie now in bed,
Its smooth sheets frame a single soul.
My shallow breath is silent and my head
Is clear as crystal water in a pool.
And then the murmurs come on stockinged feet
Deluding me with whispers so it seems
I feel a kiss creep up onto my cheek,
A tendril from the spider's web of dreams.
Whilst this kiss lies, strange fingers touch my hair
And softly stroke anticipating skin
Tracing slow and glorious patterns there
Which turn my mind towards a happy sin.
I open my eyes to see your face but
When open all they see are empty sheets.
And so in pain I close my eyes tight shut
And feel the space beside me draw the heat
From all my thoughts. The murmurs bite me now
Reminding me how far away you lie
And of the wait until our lives allow
Real touch, real blood, real words to satisfy.
The empty ache with which my soul now hisses
Will change to laughter when I feel your kisses.
(Lonely-walking in Plymouth)
Walking,
Always walking;
It helps to pass the time.
Following my tired shoes,
Along this narrow line.
Though my heart is racing,
My mind is out of gear,
A sick,
And sad,
And lonely man,
Walks along the pier.
Ocean drowns my footfall,
It's easy to forget,
Death is not so distant,
It's closer than a step.
Falling,
Always falling,
Down onto the rocks.
I wonder what will happen,
If,
I,
Forget,
To stop.
(Written at Greenbelt Festival 1994)
Two,
Wind-guided,
Inseparably rise.
Onwards,
Distance-dwindled,
Two specks become one;
Disappear,
Into this wide blue infinity.
You brought a smile in the darkness,
A shadow of brightness,
In a world so reserved,
And so cold.
And you could turn the tables,
On a lonely day,
Help me take another step along ...
?
But who cares for you,
When you're sad and unsure?
When you're world falls apart,
Like a dream at the dawn?
You shone so brightly,
With no light to guide.
I wish I could say the words,
I never did.
Who threw the stone?
?
"Not I", said the Churchman,
Secure in his righteousness.
"Not us", said the politicians,
Such things being open to delegation.
"Nor us", said the philosophers,
In armchairs of ivory.
?
Who threw the stone?
?
"We did", said the congregation,
Meek and mindless,
Swayed and seduced,
Fearful,
Fanatical.
"We threw the stone,
Because you told us to."
World bubbles and the rain
Mrs Smith (a lady never tells her age)
Pink-white wrinkles, blue-white hair in a scarf
Shuffles to the front door with the empty milk bottles
And in another world
A woman screa,s, dark eyes brim-full of terror
As a soldier steals her inner secret space.
Ete Mbali (forty three)
Stepping on the dry dust road under the new, free African sun,
Suddenly catches a drifting flower-freed tendril, heaven scent
And in another world
A child whimpers as the heavy hand comes down again
From whisky breath heights, promising bruises and broken dreams.
Lucy Bates (nearly six)
Awe-filled lips parted, examines her open-now, close-now hand,
Perfectly formed, each line as each line should be
And in another wold
A father sighs, surveying his stick thin, swollen bellied children,
And the grain pot half empty, half fear-filled.
Hal Keaton (twenty four)
Rushes dizzily slow to work - ten minutes four miles of freeway,
Cars as glittering lizardskin belch a fuzzy haze
And in another world
A petrol chainsaw splutters into rip-slashing life
And a proud tree topples, submitting its spirit to oblivious man.
Yet still the rain falls (old as the hills)
Fat drops split their skins quietly
Over all the homes and hands and eyes and fields
Of all women and trees and children and men
Of all the world.
Next time you feel the rain
Remember the others it touches too.
You Am;
The Source,
The Keeper of Times,
The Completion
You Am,
The Bearer of pain,
The Furious Heart,
The Awakening.
You Am;
The always-with-us,
The Hungry,
The Oppressed,
You Am,
Here am I.
"Do you come here often?". The voice was close, which surprised her, since all her friends were dancing. It's one of those chat up lines, she thought. Seems a bit funny really, why someone should want to know how often somebody goes somewhere ... "I said do you come here often?", he repeated.
"What? Oh yeah. Er no, not much really." she stuttered, startled out of her thoughts by the realisation that he was talking to her. What did her friends all say when boys asked them that? Is it all so obvious?
"Do you want to dance?", he asked. "Well not really - I can't really dance ...". Liar, she told herself. She loved dancing, especially in front of the bathroom mirror and to the radio in the bedroom.
But she couldn't dance out there. People would see her - they would see her, and she wasn't like them; didn't want to be. "Oh well, see you then", he said as he walked away. She knew she'd never recognise him again.
She would have liked to ask why he'd asked her to dance. Her friends called it 'chemistry'. Well, she thought, some guys get all the chemicals. That wasn't chemistry; nothing reacts so fast!
So what if I'd said yes? she considered, What would I be doing now?
She looked at her glass of tepid coke, warmed by the heat of disco lights and sweaty dancers. Maybe a few drinks would've helped. Her friends seemed to manage alright on it, but somehow she knew she'd be half asleep and even more depressed if she started drinking.
Chemistry!
But what do I want anyway? I don't want their one night stands and cheap thrills - I wish I did 'cause it all seems easy enough. No, give me a man who doesn't need to see a miniskirt and drink five pints to get his chemicals working. Someone a bit different. Not so I can join in their conversations about 'what theirs is like in bed' or what they did in his car. Wasn't Love meant to be deeper than that?
Yes, Love, she decided. I'm through with chemistry. She walked out determined, leaving her friends to ignore her on their own.
"Have you got any spare change, please ?"; Dave was prepared for this. He stuffed his hanky hard into his pocket and took a few experimental steps to make sure his cash wouldn't jingle, then he looked straight ahead, veered slightly to the left until his arm scraped along the wall, and set off through the subway.
Suddenly there was a yelp and he found himself walking through; a cardboard box, a collection of assorted coins and a startled greyhound, ending up with a close of view of a pair of battered DMs - a lot closer than he'd have liked.
Oh bugger, he thought. They usually sit on the other side! A slightly bent twopence piece rolled across his field of vision and jangled to a halt on a cracked paving stone.
Suddenly he heard the sound of laughter, and the world moved again.
It was a woman's voice, not unkind, and it seemed to sparkle in the grey city.
"Sorry", she said, still laughing. "Didn't you see where you were going ?". He turned to face her, via laddered tights, a flowery skirt and an army surplus jacket. He got up and examined his suit, leaving her rubbing her shin. She was quite pretty; wild brown hair with a small face - almost delicate. Somehow his category of 'dosser' didn't seem to fit any more. She seemed to have an aliveness that reminded him of his childhood; before education and economics took over.
He became aware of the flush of embarrassment creeping into his consciousness, but guilt was there already. "Er... sorry. Are you all right ?". "Oh, I'm ok.", she replied.
There was an awkward silence, but somehow he couldn't leave - not yet.
People were walking around him and trying to stare without him noticing. He was sure he heard somebody muttering something about "those bloody hippies". He turned and glared after them.
Despite himself he somehow felt that this girl needed protecting; oh how he hated being a man! "Can I do anything for you ?", he asked, to try and relieve the guilt and get away from the gaze of these confounded weekend shoppers and commuters.
Soon they were walking trough the city centre, looking for a coffee shop. He'd felt so stupid as he helped her pick up her scattered coins, maybe a pound in all, remembering how he'd tried to avoid giving her anything. Now he wasn't sure how he felt - he didn't feel so out of place now. Maybe it was just everyone else who was out of place; the women shouting at their kids, the pushy salesmen and their second rate deals, the grey-faced commuters ...
He headed for a The Silver Teapot; he'd been there a couple of times before. The bell jingled merrily as he pushed open the door.
The waiter stood in the aisle in front of them. "Sorry, no dogs." he said, trying to be as polite as possible, but not doing a very good job. "Oh, Lucky'll be no trouble.", said Corrine.
Corrine, that was her name. Dave wasn't sure why he'd asked her. It wasn't as if he'd ever see her again, was it? A nice name; the thought had scuttled across his mind before he could grab it and stuff it back with all the other jumbled emotions that crowded at the edge of his consciousness.
Right now, this waiter was getting on his nerves. "It says 'No Dogs' on the door,"; he was getting a little edgy. "unless you're blind. You're not blind, are you ?".
"Can we take a cup outside then ?" asked Corrine. Dave could see people's heads starting to turn. Do they think I'm with her ? he wondered, looking at his dirty suit.
To tell the truth, he almost hoped they did.
"Sandra ! It's nearly time !". Sandra woke, but not slowly: Suddenly her eyes were wide open and she knew it would take Superglue or several vodka-and-oranges to make them shut again. "Urgh ..." she yawned, looking at the alarm clock.
It was one of those complicated electronic ones that erupt into distorted radio static at odd times in the night, and was flashing its red LEDs merrily, unconcerned with the day ahead.
She dimly remembered giving up trying to work out how to change the settings late last night, having lost the scrap of paper that supposedly told you how in eight forms of Japamerican.
Now it was five to eight, and she was late. She was in the middle of taking out her anger on half the population of Asia when she heard Julian shouting again from downstairs.
"I said shall I make you some coffee ?" repeated the voice from downstairs. "Bluur ... ok Ju."
Why did Julian have to be so bloody helpful ? She knew she'd be grateful later, but there's nothing worse in the morning than someone who's more awake than you: Julian always seemed to be more awake though - he'd probably never even heard of a lie-in.
It was now nearer eight than five to eight. The clock radio flashed the seconds on its garish digital display, trying to make it very obvious that time is money, or makes the World go round or something. You never hear of Jamaican clock makers, she thought wryly to herself as she struggled to move herself out of bed.
There was a sound a lot like somebody having a fight with a duvet, a brief silence, then she was up - just.
Her head felt like it weighed a ton as she shuffled over to the mirror, a dim sense of panic nagging in the back of her mind.
She ignored it as her sleepy face blurred into view; she wondered why people always look in mirrors in the morning. Maybe it's nice to start the day knowing that you can't possibly look any worse than you do now, she reflected.
Well it was a face, and it served its purpose. Quite a handsome face to tell the truth, but you couldn't tell her that. It's funny how the good looking people don't like you telling them; It's probably why no one bothers any more.
Fifteen minutes later she was drinking a lukewarm cup of coffee in the kitchen, plastered in make-up and smelling like the finals of a British Flower Club competition.
Julian was busy washing the high gloss gravy emulsion off last night's dishes, and not paying much attention to the masterpiece of beauty sitting behind him in a sleep, perfume and Oh-no-I'm-late induced haze. It irritated her a bit that all her hours of work on choosing the right shoes to match her dress and colour coordinated make-up seemed so ineffective. Well ok, it took me fifteen minutes, but it used to take me longer, she conceded. I've just had a lot of practice.
She had to admit though, that turning on Julian was not number one on her list of priorities, but it would've been comforting to have somebody say 'Cor, look at that' or something equally reassuring when she came in the room.
With Julian, she always got the feeling that he disapproved of the way she looked. To tell the truth, he didn't exactly disapprove - he seemed to find it a bit funny seeing her trying to look different than she really was. It was very unnerving. It was nicer to be among people who agreed that make-up and power dressing were essential attributes of true maturity.
Of course, Julian didn't mention it much, but Sandra remembered him saying how nice she'd look if she was 'a bit more tasteful with the fashion'. He obviously didn't think much about how he looked, but for Sandra it was vital. She panicked when she didn't have a mirror as much as some people panic when they don't know the time.
It worked anyway. Well, it had an effect; 'working' usually mean the things you want happen, and that was debatable: Julian seemed to think she was lucky, always having men chasing after her. She wished she knew someone she could offload some of them on (except for the really nice ones). It was worse being a woman because men get so much more pushy and are always trying to impress, dancing at clubs and drinking pints of beer in one go. Sandra didn't have the heart to tell them how stupid they looked. Well ok, to be honest she thought they were so funny that she didn't want to lose one of the few sources of humour in her life.
On occasion she pitied them (usually after several drinks) when she was in one of her rare compassionate moods, in the brief time before she started feeling sorry for herself.
Julian would talk about 'stable relationships'. She'd always laugh and say something about equestrian romances. She supposed that she had wanted a stable relationship once, but decided that men weren't the best place to look.
She checked her handbag; keys, make-up and mirror (vital), paracetomol, a little valium, a big pack of cigarettes. If you didn't know better, you might suggest analogies about plastering over cracks, or firm foundations. It wouldn't do any good: Her idea of a foundation was something you put on under your make-up. She'd know what you meant all right. She'd just try her best to ignore it.
She could feel Julian looking at her now with that concerned look of his and her guilt started banging on the walls of her subconscious.
"Look, it's my life. It's all right for you if you don't get stressed." Without thinking, she added "You're not wearing that are you?" and instantly regretted it. Julian turned back to his frantic scrubbing of the dishes and mumbled something about it being 'only a wedding'. Well it would be his own fault if he felt out of place. What did he mean 'only a wedding'. There'd be the service (a necessary hardship, unfortunately), the signing of the certificate, the reception and speeches, probably a disco afterwards (with maybe some nice blokes, she thought hopefully). Sandra thought he ought to show more respect to his friends. After all, they hadn't invited everyone.
Robert and Lisa were Julian's friends really. If Sandra ever gave herself the time to be paranoid she might've thought they'd only invited her because she lived with Julian and that they hoped she wouldn't come. This wasn't the case of course: It was really a well meaning effort to give her some contact with people. It's funny how the kinds of clubs she went to are sometimes the loneliest places on Earth, despite all the people there.
It was a funny thing about how people looked. Maybe Julian didn't think it really mattered. Sandra remembered how she used to like dressing up when she was a kid, and recalled always asking for make up kits for Christmas and being told she was too young. It used to be great fun pretending to be someone else, but of course she'd grown out of that now.
Julian was one of those people who never seemed to change whatever he wore. He'd still look awkward and clumsy in an Italian suit and those expensive sunglasses like on The Godfather, she thought unkindly. But it was true; sometimes the quietest people's personalities were so strong nothing could change them.
Sandra always thought growing up was to do with handling society and doing things you weren't allowed to before. Before I was allowed to usually, she admitted guiltily to herself.
But it was nice, somehow, having Julian around with his daily routine; early nights and mornings. It brought a glimpse of order into her erratic lifestyle.
"OK, I'm off", said Julian, picking up his bag. It always fascinated Sandra; she'd sneaked a look once to see what he always carried around with him, trying to ignore her conscience trying to tell her stories starring someone called Pandora, and the clandestine nature of travel accessories. Her conscience sneaked off with its tail between its legs after she'd looked: It was full of fairly innocent things like various sizes of screwdriver, spanners, string, pen, paper, matches; all sorts of 'useful' items that 'might just come in handy' he'd probably say.
Her only punishment for her snooping was a broken nail as she tried to unjam the zip again. "Damn !" she'd cursed, partly out of the disappointment of not finding anything even vaguely incriminating as well as the desolation that can only come from damaging one of the few parts of the body that neither hurts or is a particular hardship to be without. She'd grow her nails long again of course: Some people never learn.
She had hoped to find some hidden secrets in Julian's life, like a black book or secret diary. She gave up after briefly dabbling in the idea of a him as a phantom burglar who scales skyscrapers on deceptively strong string, unscrews window frames, leaves cryptic notes like 'I have nicked all your dosh. Ha ha ha !' and then sets light to them.
"Do you want a lift ?", asked Julian, the sound of his voice making it even harder to imagine him as some callous criminal or a man with something to hide. Sandra weighed the options: She didn't relish the thought of walking a mile to the church in the uncomfortable high heels she was wearing, but turning up to a wedding in a 2CV wasn't as glamorous as she would have liked.
"Well ok,", she said, feeling a little unkind "as long as you stop round the corner." Julian loved his car; Well he didn't exactly love it. He just spent a lot of time on it. Some cars gleamed and were lovingly polished every Sunday afternoon. If Julian's car was for sale, even the most enthusiastic salesman would be hard pressed to put much more than 'works' or 'careful driver' on the advert. It was a bit dented, with rust tempted out from under the wheel arches to explore the untracked wilderness of the bonnet, only to meet untimely death from frequently renewed coats of rust paint.
People say funny things about cars, but it was true that Julian's matched his outlook on life. "It's what's under the bonnet that matters", he'd said once. Sandra remembered making some smutty comment - she couldn't really help it. Maybe she felt a bit guilty really. After all, it made sense in some ways, however tacky it might sound.
It was funny how both of them, despite the differences between them, thought of themselves as rebels.
She picked up her own bag, crammed with the things she needed to see her through the day, pausing to take out a cigarette. She could feel Julian looking away as she lit up. She couldn't figure out what his problem was; he'd even lie (rather badly) if she ever asked him if he had a light.
He probably heard her coughing fit too: She was sure he'd shut the door a bit harder than he needed to when he went out. "Oh, stuff you!" she said after him as she got up to go.
*
Sandra was starting to regret this. Ok, so it was raining one of those fine drizzles; the kind that gets you soaked before you notice, and Julian's car was drier than it was outside, but only just, she protested inwardly. Still, she was finding plenty to complain about.
"Isn't the engine sounding a bit rough today, or does it always sound like that?", she asked tactlessly. Julian was so used to having his car insulted that he made the mistake of ignoring her.
Steam was starting to creep up the windows already (she hoped other people didn't jump to conclusions on seeing steamy windows like she did) and they'd already waited five minutes to get on to the main road.
Sandra would have been a demon back seat driver if she'd ever learnt to drive. She was bad enough anyway; "There was a parking space there", she said looking back as they rattled around the twisted bolognaise of the town's one way system for the third time. "Look, I didn't see it, ok ?", replied Julian, trying his hardest to stay sane. Shopping traffic fatigue was taking its toll on them both; "Anyway, it's too far away."
"I hope you're not ... oh it doesn't matter", Sandra said hurriedly, trying to wipe the condensation off the window for the third time, though it seemed to have a aversion to transparency. "What ?". There was a pause, and Julian looked back to the sluggish line of cars and the traffic lights. "I was going to say I hope you're not going to park too close to the church, if you must know" muttered Sandra, unable to stand not having the last word any longer. "Well it's raining isn't it ? You could've walked if you wanted" he barked, accelerating away jerkily. "I know you think my car's crap, but I'm not going to arrive there soaked." Sometimes Julian was annoyingly perceptive.
Sandra was half way through muttering "I didn't say that, did I ?" when the car jerked and died. They both strained against the seatbelts, slumping back into the seats as movement stopped and that silence that descends after a disaster broke for a couple of seconds.
Sandra surprised herself by not saying "I told you so". Something told her that it was neither the time or the place.
They opened the doors, almost in unison, letting in the rain and the sound of traffic and car horns. "Shut up!" Sandra shouted uselessly at the cars behind them. She thought that people in nice warm, dry, working cars had absolutely no right to blow their horns at her.
Julian slammed his door and shouted something that she didn't hear.
"I put new bloody spark plugs in last week". Sandra decided, against her normal judgement, to say nothing. She got back in the car where it was drier, though only just, and watched him cramming himself under the bonnet. He was a big chap; nearly six foot, with wide shoulders, big clumsy looking hands... His name seemed to fit somehow. "Can you get the can of engine cleaner out the boot ?" he shouted over the traffic. He wasn't exactly ugly, but not handsome either. He was a bit strange, but likeable somehow like a big sheepdog, thought Sandra, wondering why people think such strange things whilst sitting in broken down cars. "I said can you get the... oh, I'll get it then.", he repeated irritably, going to the boot and rummaging in his bag.
After fifteen minutes, frantic coughing and spluttering (mostly from the car), muffled shouts and expletives (these were mostly from Julian) he got back in the driver's seat and slammed the door so the whole car shook (though that's not to say it didn't shake when you closed the door anyway). Sandra felt her muscles tensing up in the few seconds of silence that followed, then he shouted "Bastardbastardbastard", probably inventing a new German word that meant something like 'A-pleasant- family-day-out-on-the-banks-of-the-Rhine-at-four-thirty-in-the-afternoon-on-the-22nd-of-May'.
"Couldn't you get it to work then ?". People always ask tactless questions at times like this, and Sandra was no exception; People are probably intrinsically tactless. How else can babies choosing to cry at night, badly timed telephone calls and obscure religious groups sending out people to jam their feet in doors at exactly the wrong time be accounted for ? Humans, being a fairly adaptable bunch, should have evolved some defence against the constant barrage of tactlessness, but if anyone had, it certainly wasn't Julian. "You can try if you like", he said defensively in the tone of voice that makes it very clear that you're neither expected to try, or would have any chance of success even if you did.
That's what annoys me about men, Sandra found herself thinking. It's the way they always think you're challenging them to do better. She wondered what would make him more smug: Her trying to fix the car (actually, she didn't have any chance of success), or being a submissive female and admitting it. She chose the latter, fairly unanimously (it took a lot less effort and was certainly drier and less oily). Actually Julian was in no mood to be smug: He was either sulking or making a detailed study of the speedometer calibration.
"Do we have to walk, then ?", Sandra asked, hoping that if anyone was keeping a black book of tactless comments, they were having a day off. In fact it was probably more likely that they'd gone to town to make another bulk order of ink cartridges.
She waited for the retaliation, but it didn't come: There was just a stony silence (apart from the traffic; cars driving up the pavement to get past, and that wretched fan heater). In fact, it was probably more of a gravelly silence. She turned off the fan - it was annoying. It just heated up the steam and deposited it on anything that had cooled down sufficiently for it to condense on.
As it died away, Julian silently let off the handbrake and wrenched the wheels towards the pavement with the eery, heavy sound of a car moving without the engine. It was the kind of sound that makes people panic about brake failures and cliffs. Sandra managed to convince herself that there weren't any cliffs in the town centre, and hoped he would apply the brakes before she heard the nauseating crunch of expensive bodywork damage (to someone else's car; you wouldn't notice it on Julian's car apart from the appearance of some paint on the wing).
He succeeded in getting the car off the road, though he'd run out of roll before he got it as straight as he'd have liked. He hoped that people would realise that he'd broken down and that he wasn't really that bad at parking.
"Well, you needn't have to worry about turning up in my grotty old car now", he said finally, running out of energy to feel angry any more. "It's an alright car really", Sandra replied, wishing fervently she hadn't and hoping that he wouldn't point out the placing of that remark in the Top Ten of Stupid Comments in Broken Down Cars. It wasn't that she normally went out of her way to disagree with him; she just didn't like people to agree with her without an argument.
She opened the door again, bracing herself for the cold, but found out that wasn't; just very wet, as she stepped into a mini reservoir left over from the last roadworks extravaganza. Rage and embarrassment rose to a crescendo, ignoring the conductor's baton and breaking several EEC noise regulations. She didn't consider the point that her high heels meant she was three inches less wet than she might have been (but who would ?), and looked for someone or something to blame. Obeying first human law of tactlessness, she proceeded to choose the innocent victim: Julian.
"You could've parked somewhere else, you ..."; her voice was drowned out by a noise before she could reach Number One in the stupid comments charts, and she discovered that there was something worse than getting out of a broken down 2CV and standing in a puddle in the middle of a shopping centre in your best wedding clothes. The sound sounded a bit like vroooom...sploosh and involved the displacement of what seemed a considerably larger amount of water than was actually in the puddle by car tyres, and ended in very wet clothes.
Maybe the car was sent by God to remind all swearers of the Flood.
Maybe it wasn't, but Sandra was determined to use a suitable word for the occasion from her repertoire of expletives. "Oh..." - there was no word for it. Swearing would need several thousand more years of development to evolve a suitable word - maybe even a whole new alphabet or a specialist form of life to say it.
"... bother", she laughed, because after a while, even anger sees the funny side and takes a break. At least Julian was trying not to laugh.
"Well, what now ?"; Julian eventually managed to ask the inevitable question after the first two attempts were drowned in cascading, unceremonious, liberating laughter.
Sandra looked up from her position hunched against the side of the car, still in stitches from her fit of giggles.
"I mean, it's pouring with rain, we're late and ..."
"When's the last time you had a good laugh ?", interrupted Sandra, getting back into the car "I mean really, not just being polite or something".
"Eh ? Oh, I don't know really", said Julian, surprised at the sudden turn in conversation. "I suppose I haven't much since I left University. Why ?". "Oh, I don't know.", replied Sandra, "Sod the wedding - Let's go and have a cup of coffee." To her surprise, they did.
*
"Is that them ?", asked Lisa, glancing in the rear view mirror, trying to see over the suitcases and boxes piled in the back. Robert turned and stared back through the car window at the cafe behind them; "I think so. Do you think they saw us ?". "I don't think so. They looked a little involved."
"I don't know what you mean", said Robert prudishly. "I still say it was a mean trick. I mean, it could have all gone wrong.". He was looking back again, but the cafe was now out of sight around the corner. "Nosey!" smiled Lisa. "I suppose you're right, but it was so sad to see them living in the same flat and never really getting on. I knew it'd be alright once they got to know each other. Maybe we should tell them one day."
"What makes you so sure it's going to be like that ?", asked Robert, looking at her suspiciously. "Oh, I've just got that feeling.", she replied mischievously.
"Hmm ... female intuition I suppose". Robert smiled to himself and looked down at the object he was turning over in his hands.
It was a spark plug.
1st day 1st month, 2000AD
Fast in, fast out. Not the orthodox way but Michael didn't do the orthodox jobs any more. They still taught the old ways in the Centre; don't want to give the youngsters ideas, and operatives never gave anything away except to the Highest authority. He grinned in the red flickering darkness as he remembered Ardreus, the gentle old teacher strangely at odds with a strange subject. "Those of you who think they know better may find your ideas decidedly short-lived. This isn't a glamorous job. It isn't an artform; it is Arrival, Delivery, Exit. Firstly, Arrival; this is achieved by the Maladreus Strategum..."
Ardreus, long since moved on to another department was one of only a few who could have seen him now if he'd cared to look down; the almost-invisible figure swinging between flame-shrouded rock away from the crowd that gathered around the spot he'd occupied (and the other occupant who wouldn't be following him) moments before. A last look back at the red rock cavern, its inhabitants shocked and scurried by his single act, and then a spinning dive just for the joy of motion ("...dangerously ambitious but annoyingly competent. Expect the worst and hope for the best" as Ardreus has written in his confidential report) into the darkness outside before contacting the centre; "Mission accomplished".
The Financial Times April4th 2000
Trading on the Markets has been falling steadily over the past few weeks. Business output appears to be falling but company bosses seem reluctant to lay off workers to increase dividends to share holders. Economists forecast a further downturn with no evidence of an end in sight.
Flat 14a, Kensington, 5.45am May 18th 2000
Robin Hardacre sat up in bed. The sound of traffic seemed quieter than he'd ever remembered it as he listened to Linda breathing deeply beside him. Why she wasn't she on her train; he remembered her telling him about the business meeting she had in York at 10. He looked at his watch again; it didn't seem worth going back to bed for the half hour before he started work in the City.
He flipped open the organiser that kept its vigil on the bedside table and scrolled through the meetings for today; Linda, woken by the electronic bleeps, drowsily pulled him close to her. He shrugged, smiled deeply (for the first time in how long?) and pulled the warm covers back over his legs, as the electronic organiser slipped, forgotten, down between the bed and the table.
News Focus, July 2000
And finally, another Minister and three back-benchers have taken up new careers; Phillip Jenkins quit the Ministry of Defence saying he was "disillusioned". He is taking some times out before going into "something agricultural". Changes of this kind have never been seen in government before this year, in which we have seen politicians from all parties, indeed, across the world, making radical changes in career and taking huge pay cuts. In their place, we are seeing a new kind of politician, striving towards a more communal form of government. Political experts are baffled by this latest turn of events which we hope will bring government closer to the people.
Toyco marketing meeting, Washington DC, November 18th 2000
"I don't know what's happening. Kids don't seem to want our toys and dammit if I think we've got anything they should want." The five marketing executives shuffled uneasily in their chairs around the large table, several places conspicuously empty as Toyco's MD strode, red-faced, around them. Roy Harbottle's fiery temper was well known and the stories of what had happened to previous staff, thought unconfirmed, were plausible. "I've had to write a letter myself since my secretary said she 'had better things to do than earn 25 thou a year... Well, I never thought I'd be saying this to y'all, but I've written to UTC suggesting a merger...". He trailed off sheepishly; could it be he sounded embarassed? "Er," Tim Johnson was the newest on the team. "With respect, I see that a merger with Universal Toys Co could enable us to create a better standard of toy more efficiently...". "Efficiency be dammned" roared the MD. "I want us to make toys. Toy's y'hear? The best! Toys that'll last Christmas after Christmas and keep them amused for more than a week.". "Actually, I rather like toys", the senior marketting executive said nervously". "Of course you do. Of course you do!" shouted the MD, his red face alive. "It's what we all wanted to do before money seemed more important. In fact, lets get down to the factory floor and check out our toys right now..."
O'Donal's PLC, confidential and personal
Happy Christmas to you and your family too. Yes, like yourself I have been considering my role in the fast food market but have come to the conlusion that I would feel more comfortable in a different trade altogether.
You may be suprised to hear this, but I have finally succumbed to the many letters I receive regarding the health and environmental problems connected with fast food. Why has it taken so long, I wonder?
Hearing you speak with such enthusiasm about the ideas you have for better projects, I feel that handing all O'Donnal's assets over to the Burger Buddha chain could be beneficial all round. Of course we will need to sort out financial matters; may I suggest that we meet in person?
Please find attached a list of health, environmental and social guidelines relating to the hand-over. I'm afraid I will have to insist that these are adhered to as a pre-requisite for the deal.
Yours - Ronald O'Donal
Minutes World Petroleum PLC share-holders' meeting. February 2001
#01-17: This meeting agrees unanimously that the dividends shall be shared out as detailed in the report attached, with remaining holding given to the charitable bodies (also attached) prior to the merger with Global Energies.
#01-18: We thank the members leaving the board and welcome the new Green Technologies Consultants who will be taking their place (see attached).
General Report on events following Incident 97K-14b
Standards have slipped seriously following the murder of [restricted] by an intruder early in the year 78,663. We require all operatives to increase their target by at least 25% as of now.
Management are concerned that complacency has been growing since our last triumph in the 76th millenium. Operatives should be aware that punitive measures have been planned and punishment strategums are already in place for those who do not display a substantial increase in productivity.
The Sahara Desert, December 2001
Carisman looked up at the stars, suprised at how beautiful they looked through the Nitrogen/Oxygen mix. "I've heard this area of silicon has stopped expanding". Talik nodded at the junior technician, "Yes, the forecasts all show that there will be organics moving in soon if they keep on the way they are". "It seems a shame that it's all going to be destroyed", said Carisman, squatting down and sifting the unfamiliar yellow granules between his fingers.
"Now, don't go jumping to conclusions just because it's written down somewhere", Talik said sternly, looking away from the black, frozen sky and sweeping his gaze across the ranks of solar reflectors that marched along the ancient dunes. "You never can be sure what the plan is. Mysterious ways my son, mysterious ways..."
Threadneedle Farm, August 2005 "Robin!". He looked up again at the sign, wondering how many people got the joke. Linda must have taken delivery of the fleeces they'd agreed to trade for this year's harvest. The ex-investment-banker farmer laid down his hammer and huried down the track to help his wife unload the trailer.
Earhnet Mass mailing to all users:Eng Lang
Thanks to donations of time and resources, Earthnet is now able to offer and extra 50 data units of storage to all users, faster transmission and more bandwidth. To view new regional and interest channels in your own language, select one of the options below.
International Medical Journal transmission, US/ENG 2023 #4
Our global survey of medical workers has confirmed that life expectancy has increased in all areas of the globe, most markedly in the African and Asian contenants. The wider availability of appropriate medicines has had some bearing on this, as has changing lifestyles.
To Convener of Communications, Earthnet
It is with great relief that I can tell you that the final data link has been installed. Thanks to the help from staff from your company and others, I can finally wind down the transmitters. For the past two years my familly have been begging be to slow down and spend more time with them and on the garden. Well, now I am. Take care of WBC's programs (I'm sure I don't really need to say); I hope you'll have time to drop by and keep me up on how things are going (and maybe handle a shovel rather than the wire-cutters, or whatever it is you people use now). Is is really true that you've found a way of transmitting globally without satellites? Now that would be worth something!
Earthnet Regional transmission, 2097
The planned re-opening of Great Consuls mine has been postponed for the foreseeable future thanks to a timely communication from Bill Thomas of the Southern Scrap Collective. He reports the discovery of a previously unknown Resource Cache in his Agreed Zone and asks for local people with skills in landfill mining [newslink: The Treasure in the Dirt] to contact him. Magnified scans from the new Scansat unmanned station [newslink: safe reclamation/conversion of obsolete geo-stationaries / former US Millitary spysat orbit rectified prior to conversion / further off-planet developments] show sizeable amounts of metals and other reclaimables. [link to potential purity/quantity/composition details].
Pandamonium bulletin #12003921 [Code-locked appendix, Class 1]
Operations in Area 55217 (Earth Sector) have been abandoned. Due to the loss of irreplaceble key personnel, we have steadily lost ground in this previously fruitful sector. It is unlikely that works can be resumed in the foreseeable future, particularly in the current climate.
"Well, Michael", Ardreus looked sternly at the young angel flying next to him. "I didn't approve then and I still don't approve. Our whole ethos concerns the action as well as the result. But the Lord is happy with the results, so what can I say? And I don't know who let slip that it was me who gave you your advanced training...".
Michael knew he could hide nothing from his old teacher's old but piercing gaze, but he knew the old angel was proud of him. "Here we are", he said, and accelerated away from Ardreus through the dark twisting rocky tunnels, once red with fire and fear, now empty of all memory of what was before. He stopped at the great cavern to find the old angel standing by the dusty plinth, the shadows eliminated by his radiance and majesty. "Ahh, the energy of youth" he said with a wink. "But how... oh, well yes this is what I wanted to show you, before this place is destroyed forever. The statue and crypt were destroyed early on when the rationalisation team stripped out the place."
"I see they left the inscription", said Ardreus, brushing aside the dust from the broken stone. "but even angels have their day. Don't let it go to your head. Now, we've got a holy city to build here...". The two angels lept upwards, not even bothering to use the hell-stained tunnels. Beneath them an avalanche of stone fell onto the polished carved black slab: 'ARCHDAEMON MAMMON: DIED IN DUTY - WE WILL NOT SEE HIS LIKE AGAIN"