Sunday, 6 January 2013

Kiss of Life

I died in a very interesting way. Gripping the manifest, I swang from the low bed of the wagon. It was only a few feet to the ground but my left knee gave way on landing. It had been dodgy ever since Corey Fenwick clattered it with a piece of drainpipe in Sunday school twenty years ago. Drainpipes were made of lead back then, so it would have packed quite a heft. I don't think there was a particular reason. Random violence was a common boredom-beater in those times.

So I leapt, when I should have known better. You get to an age where you have to accept a lack of invincibility, where things you used to manage with ease suddenly appear improbable. I couldn't know that for me the age would be thirty-five, but perhaps it had been on the cards ever since I tried to clear my driveway gates in a hurdler's leap and got my feet caught in two wrought-iron curlicues. That ended badly too, although nowhere near as badly as this.

I jumped. I don't know what it is with the jumping. I wasn't a hurdler, nor had I any ambition to be one. I just liked to jump, either over things or from on top of them. Height didn't seem to be a factor, nor circumstances (I once jumped from a hotel balcony in Albufeira, fortunately landing in the swimming pool and not some oily sunbather's lap.)

I just liked to jump, is all.

Actually, I jumped from this particular deck, because the driver of the truck it belonged to was a lady and I wanted to impress her. An Eastern European lady, attractive and wholly anomalous to the profession. It made a change. She wore a cheesecloth shirt, tied at the waist. It was summer, an even spread of sun and high, thinning cloud. She had long curls. Her hands looked strong and she smelled of light sweat and heavy tobacco. What I remember most was that she didn't need language to tell me to do all the work. Her lashes and lips were a universal translator.

So I landed and stumbled, feeling that gunshot pain in my knee. I tried to cushion it by squatting like a frog, and the biro in my top pocket, (a Bic biro - red, ironically) pierced my neck. It had a sharp, tapered top. An assassin couldn't have managed it better. It popped through my carotid and lodged itself in my windpipe. I can be thankful (one always looks for the positives) that exsanguination was marginally quicker than the choking. It still took a while, but those wide, shocked eyes and the Dubrovnik Marlboro kiss sustained me, and sustains me still.




Wednesday, 2 January 2013

The Idea of Ideas


That's me, the hidden assailant, springing out from nowhere, knife in hand. Throat-grabbing, reverse-thief, sidling up with a whisper. "Feel that? The steel of me? The gist of me? The nib-driven tip to draw a  bead of blood with?"

That's me, the spine-scraper, the eye-widener, the glimpse of a more thorough pain. "A wish is a promise," I say, glove-to-mouth. Yours alone to treadle on the whetstone of your mind with. To shape and hone till sparks fly from your eyes and feed the greedy forge. This blade, irreducibly fine, the keenest hum to drown out all the grinding, planar apathy of mankind.

Extrude from me a scimitar edge, and craft from that a jewelled hilt so I swish like a sword men feel honoured to fall on. Make me so much more than the crude shank that I was born of. Slice well, cut clean, let them yield to its point as meat on the skewer, as maidenheads violated, as shoals divided by native cunning. Use my lethality to make yourself prescient. Swash and buckle or flash hard for tiny nicks. I don't care, only don't squander me. I'm an idea. No-one need say 'what's the point?' I'm the point. Use me. Use it. Open a vein somewhere. Flay something's hide.

Or make of me a feather to tickle the unwary, make me a staff to herd sheep with. Herd and tickle till they beg 'no mas'. Preach and teach till their faces bleed and chalk dust hangs in their minds. I don't care, and neither am I selective; to tramp and poet akin, I'm just an idea, a wisp, an embodiment, a blueprint, a template, spelled from the ether by thoughts and words. I don't care for you, only that you don't squander me. I might not come this way again for a long time again. If ever.

Tuesday, 18 December 2012

Dust to Dust

Behind a Venetian blind, in the upper room of a high-ceilinged house, a woman moves. Nothing except her wrist and forearm are visible. The arm is bare and slender. Slim fingers wield a dusting cloth, like a pianist polishing their instrument prior to a long day of recital. She has better things to do, but this is a necessary prelude to them. A suggestion of jewellery; a bracelet or watch, in a loose cinch around the wrist.

He guesses that she cleans a vase or some unseen fixture. Her half-hiddenness gives her an air of mystique, though, and he clings to the idea that she is one of those housewives who clean in the nude. She is confident in the privacy of walls, and discards clothes whenever she can. He remembers the women at his old office talking about it, and finds it indescribably erotic to think of them, toiling in their underwear. Grunting and pink-faced, holding dustpan and brush, gussets stretched tight across the divide, thrown limbs dampening their cunts, their swollen tits jostling and straining beneath black lace or underwired satin.

It charges the moment with allure as he squints through the grimy windscreen, between lines of reflecting sunlight. Inching the car forward, he narrows distance and periphery, polarising her in the dark, hidden space she occupies. Once attuned, he searches for the deeper detail; giddy in the blatancy of his act. His mind is alert now, a clarity of focus one-pointed by the thrill of arousal and he knows, more than ever in that moment, that he is an unbelonging savage.

It isn't as though he is lurking under her window or stair, hoping for a flash of bare or covered crotch as she descends. His eye just happened to land on her. Besides, he remains unseen by angles of glazing and elevation, and in this way feels empowered, free to subsidise the tedium of queuing with idle speculation, for as long as the interlude lasts.

As though suddenly aware, the blind descends, severing the tenor of his fantastic thoughts. He feels obscurely cheated, as though she had teased him deliberately. The other hand has been holding the sash all along, only ever interested in completing the chore. Then the lights change, and the moment is lost as the traffic moves off like a herd, watchful and bustling.