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daniel f Aug 2013
I had now been walking for at least seven miles. I had been trying
to avoid giving too much thought to the hopelessness of my current
situation. As pedestrians passed on packed pavements, I could see
almost exactly what they thought. I with my beat up old raincoat and
unkempt appearance. I can't say exactly wether or not we were in
some particularly luxurious district of the town or what. But by now
apparently every woman I passed was firmly middle class. The coffee
shops were packed as the customers spilled out onto the pavement.
Across from the main parade of shops a park had been laid out. An unusually
large boating lake, thirty or forty meters from an ornate outdoor lido. The
warmth of the climate allowed its year round use. The deep green lawns,
as if cut by some unlucky soul with nail scissors, It would be impossible
for me to accurately convey the sense of well being brought upon me by this park. For twenty minutes or so, I forgot my plight entirely, strolling unnoticed
by the guards hired by the park to keep vagrants such as I away. My stomach
by now was taking no prisoners, so anytime without its unceasing requests was welcome relief.

As I made my way out of the walled garden, I noticed in the corner of my eye
a figure approaching. While my instinct screamed that I should indulge my curiosity and turn to take a look I knew far better. The police as of late
had seemingly taken a hard line toward my kind. I kept walking increasing my pace just enough as to appear in a rush but not trying to escape. Although
as is often the case, my meticulously planned escape was foiled.
"Excuse me sir" he shouted
as I continued on could I pretend to be deaf? Would that even work?
what if he spoke and he could tell that I was listening? Was it too
late to turn around and reply? I bit the bullet and turned to face him.
"Good afternoon" I replied, uneasy about what exactly awaited me.
The expected confidence of a police officer was replaced by
a timid and gentle  young man. Like some unruly child,
he made his way toward me eyes set on the floor at all times. As if approaching a teacher when caught red handed. When he got to
about ten meters he raised his face to smile awkwardly. Now all of
it made absolute sense, this boy had a face far more suited to the
theatre or a comfortable life as some artists muse. He was no police
officer, I can imagine he must have been new. No one had spoken
to me with such reverence since Id arrived here. Oh luck, of all
of the days and all of the hours I was approached by him.

I began talking before he had a chance to speak as too assert my *******
over this half-pint.
"Now I'll have you know I was robbed about a week ago, and I'm making
my way to the north to see my sister for assistance"
He smiled content that he had no need to conceal his intentions
"It's just my boss" he began slowly
"I know I know your a good kid just doing his job"
I took a particular delight in calling him kid and placing my hand
upon his shoulder in a patronising manner. For five minutes or
so afterward we spoke, he was quite interested by me and informed me
quite proudly that his mother too had come from England. He left me to
leave the relative comfort of the park but not before pointing me
in the direction of a poorhouse he said would be more than
willing to let me rest for the afternoon at least. Invigorated and taken
aback by the situation. I continued on to meal and somewhere to sleep,
out of the park and down the high street as directed.
daniel f Mar 2013
another sticky evening

its half past two
my day is ending,
and by now the unrelenting heat
seems to be getting to the stars

as they sit dim above,
surveying all of every thing,
one of those evenings
when you can hear everything,

distant dogs howl skyward,
and a lone freight train passes through
a ghost station
perhaps to london
perhaps then onward to a dock!
and then well
perhaps anywhere

an owl sat in the now
long gone willow tree
secret wise old owl

nothing to eat on the pavement,
or my garden or
anyone else's for that matter
so sing your song all night
sleep it off in the morning,

everything fading now
the harsh reality of overtime tomorrow,
seems distant like weeks upon weeks
although its twelve hours,

as i give out that eternal yawn,
the last gasp of resistance down
and now its time to sleep
another sticky evening spent
daniel f Jul 2014
atop an azure ocean
old Polynesian pearl
Omnipresent Overwhelming.
Illuminating all before it,
Waves glow soft,
pushed and pulled
by lunar cycles.
Once the sun slumps dormant,
the evening air a world away
from a swollen summer afternoon.

Leave me in stone!
Quartz or Marble.
I've never been fussy,
Anything to ensure,
my name remains mentioned
when my bones are only barely there.

The bayeux tapestry.

Crafted by artisans
Pulled by times tide
Eternity echoed in cloth.

Faces faded expression empty
Tales told only so long
Swordsman standing ready,
Baying for blood forever.

Wild joy when stared upon,
replaced by dull admiration
Oh how things change!

The tactician.

The tactician casts his able gaze,
upon his silent subject.
All manner of analysis ensues,
there are many factors to consider.
This he knows more than most.
daniel f Mar 2014
The tempest

Fear not the beasts ire,
with indiscriminate will to harm.
you have precious little chance
of swurving unseen agonies.

Embrace as if far out to sea,
Propelled by unseen currents,
With highs comes lows
come love and loss.

Embrace action eternally,
like former war torn lovers.
Reunited we remain inseparable
He tells me,
arms crossed confident
gentle unseen advisor



You may well think I'm unaware
of secret wicked intentions.

You may well have me down,
as dull and uninspired.

Well I regret to inform you,
your assumptions are misplaced.
I know all about you,
and the plans you forge
when I am not around.

I've seen it, I promise
Your body language betrays
Your subconscious intentions.

All the smiles in all the world,
will never win me over.
I've made up my mind
I've changed my plea
daniel f Sep 2016
Coming up for air

All manner of characters congregate in airport terminals, there's simply no scene sweeter than a lovesick twenty something staring intently at the door arrivals stroll through. A dozen red roses in hand, and a palatable sense of anticipation and to think, they say romance is dead. I would sit at my desk and watch the same stories play out at least a dozen times a week. The international student, the hopelessly devoted and but of course the people bound by babies and obligation. The spectrum of human emotions on display is by far the most attractive aspect of my occupation, I use the term occupation loosely. I enjoyed talking and asking and watching the smiling faces. If anyone tells you airports are depressing places they've clearly never spent too much time seated outside arrivals it's impossible (for me at least) to not feel lifted by another's joy, call it osmosis.

To most ambitiously minded young people, there is little sense of anticipation for a life lived ordinarily, who dreams of excel spreadsheets? Who tells themselves that in fifteen years time they will pass the same faces from school in shopping centres or swimming pools without batting an eye lid. Though for the lucky few born where they can stay without fear of hunger, persecution or poverty it is hard to appreciate properly the advantages they are born with. It's easy to look past the place you call home. You spend forever thinking of distant lands with foreign food without ever really giving any time to appreciate the place you were born, the satellite town off an anonymous motorway people have traversed continents to call there new home.  It always amazes me how as the people, living with the fruit of centuries worth of social progress, still yearn and complain incessantly. I suppose it's a collective cross to bare for all concerned, we who were lucky enough to be born here, take for granted the things people leave lives behind for. Technological advances have created an almost impossible situation to anyone who happened to live and did before the Internets inception. The almost instantaneous access to news and information has not expanded intelligence or fuelled fires of deep interest, a constant access to news has only served to harden us significantly to the world in which we inhabit. I think it would be short sighted and remarkably naive to say we are the first of human kind to grow complacent, admittedly it's not great but it's a lot closer than it was for anyone before us.  For some it takes a flirtation with disaster, or the loss of a loved one to realise exactly how little we appreciate exactly what we have, for me at least it was a few months working in an airport.
daniel f Mar 2013
As sleep slips over,
Whilst muscles melt unmoving
Snow drifts rising slowly
Doorways disappearing,
I watched idle hours pass
Just hoping you'd return .
The­ afterglow gone
The days short/stars dim seemingly/this is only January

A gentle thaw starts/cloud formation broken as/
cold ground soften slowly

In between seasons/march in the middle/
easter around the corner

through out the evening
the sea swelled seemingly
brimming saying something
sailors staring  safe inside
communication cut
the snow white foam made landfall
salt smelling scene
before them
daniel f Mar 2013
what a way to live
all without choices
stood here alone,
train line cry beside me

left to fall
too much
to remove me

left to watch the world go by
replaced  soon perhaps
affordable housing
someday someday
left to grow historical
someday maybe someday

what a way to spend
a winters day
light getting in
heating destroyed

door frame shaking
daniel f Mar 2013
no doubt at one time
freight carried
through counties and town
from here to anywhere
track permitting

now they've left you here alone
between the old college
and retail park
what fate awaits the others
who are here
once you've departed?

oh who's to say

homeless people sleeping
where business once flourished
the gentle pitter patter
of rails and wheels
replaced with special brew
and roll ups
failure all around
there's plenty of things
but money to be found

no doubt the driver
long gone now
retired or dead
retired or dead

less than a retirement
left to rot,
in dunstable
daniel f Oct 2016
Beneath a milky pearl          
For those who live away from this, it may be hard to picture the open ocean at night as a place of solace. With underlying  currents and precious little hope of salvation, it's understandable people are confused by my claim. But deep        
into the evening, when the only natural night is reflected                                                  
like a milky pearl in the murky waters a veil is lifted.                                            
Where as upon dry land, all manner of thoughts serve to                                      
distract upon the water it is remarkably different. Life is distilled significantly,
hauling in lobster pots becomes all important other
wise pressing issues are relegated, into mere trivialities.
The distant shimmer of porch lights serves to subtly remind
of why exactly,  your alone in a boat three hundred meters
atleast out to sea. In my opinion atleast there is has been  
no conflict of interest so great it could not find an                                  
amicable conclusion after a period spent discussing it upon                              
the silent ocean.                              
                       It is always worth keeping in mind,                    
exactly how liable to change the scene is. When viewed from                                  
afar on wind smeared winter evenings, from the comfort of a living                          
living room with loved one it's beauty laid bare for all to appreciate,
it's potential for malice concealed.

As swallows swoop skyward, and the temperature creeps ever higher
the green August fields feel
furthest, from the diminished days of winter.
For me atleast this highlights well how much things are liable to
change given time. In life as well as nature nothing is set in stone,
for even mountains overtime will retract or rise albeit far to slowly for us
mere mortals to truly appreciate. This is always best bared in mind when faced with
great adversity or personal heartache, that eventually even though
it may seem implausible things will change.

I have often heard from all manner of                                    
people that they are envious of us, those whom make a            
living from the ocean. Although I've always thought there romantic
image holds far more allure than reality, which at times
can be far worse than a busy day at the office.
I've heard before how those with jobs relating to the land,
seem a little more at peace with it all.
More willing to understand maybe
this has always always made me think                          
Clearly those who say such  have spent little time with nature,
Or just not long enough to appreciate the subtle changes which slip landscapes new seasons. The first arrival of seasonal visitors, they                                          
do not smile secretly at the sight of springs first solitary                                  
swallow, arrived from deepest Kenya.
something is better than nothing, I made a promise to myself that I'm gonna write more
daniel f Mar 2013
The sweetest hello,
I shall ever know
goodbye july hello august,
let me melt,
into the hottest my climate can offer
two weeks of freedom
with fruits of my hard earned labour
spend me
spend me
spend me
daniel f Jun 2013
from the smallest start
a chance encounter really
came something so good

everyone said that
you were far too much effort
but I'm glad they were wrong

I've known you two years
I used to want to hold you
now I'm happy just

to know you is to
love you as much as I do,
we get on so well

and I'll never grow
tired of hearing your voice
and your smile your smile

so lovely I see (I think)
what people mean when they say
better off as friends
daniel f Aug 2013
Infamy eternal? Sadly not
I'm not the only one who won't
be set aside, alive in stone.
Blue plaque with pride of place
hung upon my former haunts.
Like an ill planned attempt,
oh I can assure you
I'll fade in the end.
daniel f Feb 2016
all fingers and thumbs as always,
I minding myself and staring,
watching other people dancing.

the Arabian Sea spread out,
like a table,
beneath a thousand tiny tea lights
shimmering distant invitations.

we wade in wide eyed,
the waves lapping at thighs,
the scene set the cliche continued
all salt water and mystery,
you kissed me.

wading graceful,
hand wrapped in hand,
back to your room.
the anticipation overwhelms me.

No warm shower in six long,
hot subcontinental weeks.
I surrendered my soul to lust,
and long deep meaningful kissing.

fraught like war torn lovers,
With a promise to keep, until
over we sleep angelic blissful
post ******, a blissful sleep ensues
I wrote this 3 years ago, and found it in an old suitcase recently,
daniel f Mar 2013
night is the nation sleeping
except unlucky night workers

dawn is the whole country realising
dreams sadly are exactly that

early morning is getting up
and making the long journey
to a job you never loved
like some long forgotten ex girlfriend

mid morning is the first cigarette and coffee
"i'll take mine black"

lunch time is food
glorious food and time
to count the final hours of the working day

afternoon is children leaving school
parents waiting patiently to collect
there little darlings

the evening, good byes and
i'll see you tomorrows

I regret to inform you,
its only monday
daniel f Mar 2013
you always walk quietly,
in behind me
conversation simply flowing

looking awkward toward me
ill pass to you
although we know
the truth

left hand long extended
smiling politely
smiling politely

some word meanings remain unknown
I do try to decypher
I can assure you

although im half asleep
when the conversation
is over
daniel f Mar 2013
Before I took a seat I closed the door. Trying desperately to make a good first impression, refusing the offer of a hot drink
there's always later assuming this goes according to plan. My name called, greeted by a luke warm smile "Daniel"
Rhetorical questions always get me, do I answer or avoid? I never know anyway. Extending my hand reluctantly "Yes and you must be"
my enemy for the next ten minutes. "An informal interview followed by any questions you may have says he reassuringly" Leading me back through
the shop. This his shining kingdom and he the smiling tyrant. Forty hours a week with over time allowed you could be very happy here
working and smiling or something.
The interview is a slow roast, the mid day sun slipping through half cracked a window, I engage in eye contact a neccesary evil apparently.
Ive been up for days reading every interview technique known to man.
I could tell you all about body language or just how much I need too sleep.
Its always the subtle distractions that steal a tired mind.
Nice tie blue tie green tie I cant tell,
I remain fixated untill
"Any questions" of course I reply.
"When can I start and when will I hear back from you"
all the while secretly asking myself when will the already
sidelined enthusiasm I have for you diminish entirely
daniel f Mar 2013
But I gave you everything
I gave you the world cup
and until HD TV
that was more than enough

I'm sure someone could love me
perhaps a nursing home
or just left out on the pavement
feeling all alone

My black plastic casing
protection no more
maybe once an ariel
maybe Im unsure

on tuesday they will come
take me somewhere new
but just dont you forget me
what ever you do
All work my own!
daniel f Mar 2014
a river fish filled
between snow capped
summits.  Brown bear

solitary salmon
travelled to respawn,
across an  open ocean
nearly there now.

and once the task
time to lie down


a history of people passed.

face shapes long gone,
drawn by memory's gravity apparently once close
now so far away.

the sunlight slumped
on square shoulders.
Ever the Adonis
testament to a love
unlike any other

a collection of things I've scribbled in work while watching people,
daniel f Jan 2016
I was opened up all unexpected, the moon and it's lunar glory laid out before me.
People always passing regardless, for all of your highs and all of your lows the world will continue unaffected. Through the park passing houses waking up and eating breakfast, time waits for no man! There is certainly an allure in isolation, for three and a half years I would work the night shift, leaving for work as everyone else was sat down comfortable before football matches or soaps only to return as the last moments of dreamtime were being enjoyed only to be eroded by alarm clocks and waking obligation.
In deepest midwinter between st Stephens day and the new year, when the whole world would exists (apparently) in some eternal festive stupor those lucky enough to work 9-5 jobs and enjoy there weekends will never truly appreciate everything this period is. There's no finer reminder of the carefree existence a good childhood can afford, than having to ensure on Boxing Day you drink precious little to ensure you shall be able to rise for work at 4:50 am the next day. No amount of turkey or cliche television viewing will make up for it, none whatsoever. An deep rooted bitterness forms like a pool of water on a frosty night it soon hardens, as plans are laid out in anticipation of the forthcoming festivities, no I won't be in attendance. I will not drink, I will not dance, I will not be a shoulder to cry on when all the world the world seems evil. I'll be watching the clock and silently seething, hoping above all some great misfortune falls upon all those fortunate enough to enjoy Christmas properly. A broken ankle? a premature end to  relationship? I could hardly be classified as picky when it comes to planning others peril, I just want everyone to be as upset as I am.

When the world weighs heaviest, and sleepless evenings are standard I often walk. Without anything of worth I can walk for hours in any direction. The road at night affords reflection,  I've always been a sucker for romance and well really is there anywhere which can offer more romance than the open road? I've always felt personally a deep attachment to the horizon, all that promise. I remember as a child staring upon it with a sense of reverent awe, between the high rise flats a hill.  Matterhorn it ain't but who is anyone to define beauty anyway? I would often find myself gravitating toward the golf course in the darkness contrary to popular belief (in my opinion atleast) dark parks are the safest place at night. You become an unknown entity, it's a simple logic who would be brave enough to walk in the park at night? who would approach or engage with a solo walker in the evening in the park? It's quite simply a risk not worth taking for most . Is there no greater reminder of eternity than the M25? to stare upon it is a subtle reminder that no matter what happens people will still be going somewhere and for me atleast that beats standing still. A line of white lights stretching out deep into the distance
shining bright forever and always.
daniel f Mar 2013
friends in the beach,
im happy in the shade,
light another ciggarette
enjoy the perfect day

tell yourself you earned it,
through hard hard pointless work,
tell yourself you earned it,
a little never hurt.

the sun is peaking now,
above the sea and sand,
I could lie here forever
with budweiser at hand

onto the sand again!
oh tide why wont you learn?
Your retreat to sea,
so seemingly
An afternoon well spent
daniel f Mar 2013
"dont worry" I'm reassured
"you look just fine"
although I know otherwise
I'll keep that in mind.
I prefer black and white,
colour a fantasy filter.
I the unknown Parisian,
stories shall be told no doubt
perhaps the source of future fashion?
or left to rot for longer
my fine jaw line locked
inside ancient history
daniel f Jun 2013
Self Imposed Exile

Ive spent many evenings dreaming,
of service stations and airport lounges.

Passing people in distant cities,
enjoying a meal with mountain air.

The wine will be flowing,
The ash tray filled,
me alone in my self imposed exile.

A picture of security and independance

that picture is keeping me warm
on the way to work
April showers in August.
With everyone else but myself
I certainly dont deserve this.
daniel f Sep 2013
All manner of people can be found in train stations, there character betrayed by attire to the more observational at least. The hard pressed city worker, walking ever walking, phone at hand, ever scanning emails and ensuring accessibility always, to control is too maintain is too succeed. Those who's steps seemingly shorter and more though out, are either here on some grand tour or some exotic soire as if silently noting surroundings, as the pass beneath the ornate decorations of their location. There care free folly the main indicator of intentions.From time to time a transport police officer shall pass, stern faced, seemingly compelled by some unknown mission others stand stationary a deterrent to would be criminals. From time to time the most beautiful facet of humanity is likely to appear, in the adoring stares of young lovers. It's this or the hold and don't let go grip, young lovers and train stations have long associated (In my mind at least) the point of departure is a grey area. Where displays of public affection normally reserved for movies and poems, reach the realm of social acceptability. Long deep kisses and well thought out speeches describing the grievances of an ever bleeding heart. There is one group I have failed to mention, who in there own way are entirely distinct from any of groups fore mentioned. They are the watchers, found normally at some quite looking coffee shop across the street, however this is not to imply they can not be any of the above. All of the above mix intermittently with interesting results, I shall for as long as I live never forget the passionate embrace of an on duty police officer and his wife. His eyes bright with surprise, at ease staring upon the one he so adores. I leave the station and head toward the embankment,
All manner of people pass me on their way to unknown offices, some holding hands and staring deeply. The rumble of unseen locomotive reassures me now of course I'm drawing closer, the winter winds once faint now felt as the once green leaves now all manner of colour are pulled by unseen gusts. This city must surely be the greatest in the world, from the industrial chimneys distant to the rolling ocean. Dockers smoke cigarettes and exchange raucous  tales whilst foreign sailors stare intently. I always try my hardest to listen to as much as I could manage of these half spoken speeches.  Im rewarded instantly with an image far more detailed and planned than anything the most creative minds could conceive. The wild waves create orators, there thoughts distilled be evenings spent alone. I've always found myself drawn to transient people, I feel like I've spend forever dreaming of someplace else Greenland Egypt Canada, you name the place and I've seen it in my dreams at least. It took me a while longer than I care to admit to truly get a feel for the place, at first like some timid child I avoided it. From the age of thirteen I've been locked in a battle with wanderlust, my urge to leave it all is simply overwhelming. In all my darkest fantasies, I leave this place at some point on some old ocean liner to arrive at unknown port. Too share a meal with mountain air as my ashtray overflows. I warm myself with images of ancient explorers sailing distant oceans, guided by starlight. Some people just elude me. I'd call myself stubborn but certain people melt me, I the eternal romantic a victim of my own high hopes. I'd often find myself alone, staring across the river and wondering. I always sit upon the same old bench carved with all manner of messages declarations of undying love, names, dates all carved into immortality. The steady movement of approaching footsteps is eternal, beyond the customs house  solitary North Star shines, as if admiring its provincial estate. An unknown entity now serving as a subtle voice of reason in the darkness, occasionally couples pass, as if to cement my my longing. The starlight illuminates breaking waves, as boats sway easy ******* to subtle quayside. Ever reminded of my obligations I should really leave and go to sleep. However the pull of the darkness is tangible, that was something! oh something! Suddenly a gentle calm smothers all thought, as lights glimmer distant. Light! Oh  brother light, I the eternal castaway home bound at last. My expectations were entwined with food and wine, and the comfort of my own bed.
daniel f Aug 2013
On those drawn out summer evenings, all manner of characters would fill the coffee shops and spill outside. An interesting cross section of society would be provided for anyone willing to sit and watch, for an hour or two atleast. This particular evening will always stand out for me as representative of those carefree folly filled evenings. I was sat alone, with a copy of the evening news and an espresso across the street from a boisterous coffee shop which remained opened deep into the evening, long after others were closed. I often sat and watched people in those early few months, Id decided against socialising with colleagues. I would go to great lengths to prearranged fictitious plans and engagements in order so that I could sit alone each evening, pleasing myself. It's always far easier to enjoy food alone, without any distractions. After considering my options I settled for a steak, and a glass of wine. The waiter seemingly unconcerned failed to take note as I gave my order, with a shrug of his head he returned to the kitchen inside to place the order. The cafe I watched was perched almost perfectly across the street from the train station. As commuters and young couples in love poured out of the station, and onto the bright expanse which was the street before them. The popularity of this particular cafe is hard to convey correctly, it's frantic nature remained even on the bleakest of midwinter evenings. Now though months of bread and water were long gone, as seasonal waiters hurried arms filled will all manner of snacks and drinks.  All manner of agricultural workers would congregate in early march, eager to snap up work in the best hotels and cafes thus ensuring a healthy wage and generous tips. The waiters from the mountains always stood out. It was as if they retained the innocence of there previous surroundings, smiling all coy when taking orders from female customers. They retained the physical attributes of the mountains which they had left, towering above others and maintaining a mystique which often meant they would return in November with wives and child aswell.

By now it was half past eight atleast, and I had finished my steak and wine. The traffic was in the process of slowing down, although it was not uncommon here for traffic jams to form at any hour of the evening. Car horns echoed and ricocheted off old architecture which gave an impression of immense movement all around.  The owner was a beast of a man standing six foot high atleast, with a beard which gave away his rugged beginnings. It was impossible to estimate his origin correctly, Id always imagined he was from somewhere in Northern Europe although by now I had learnt that assumptions were the preserve of fools. He could most often be found pacing up and down the pavement adjacent to his cafe, smoking his camel blue cigarettes and staring deep into the night sky. As if preoccupied with some great moral dilemma this could go on for hours of end, without him breathing a word to anyone.  Under a great mane of curly brown hair, lay the most enthralling blue eyes imaginable. They had a softness which would not seem out of place upon the face of some Parisian muse. Although I must confess when first confronted with this gentleman an his almost childlike appearance, I was adamant I had him figured. He seemed the kind of man who blundered through life, although successful still seemed to be scraping an unenviable existence for himself.

By now I had stuck around long enough to get some feel for the pitter patter of life in just such a place. The transient nature of the customers ensured a bravado unseen in any old small town watering hole, women driven wild by spontaneous desire stared sultry at the mysterious visitors.
A crew of sailors who had no doubt been granted shore leave, and were soaking up the atmosphere just across the road from me. They could have been from any South American nation, or Spain. It really was impossible to tell from my distance, a few had clearly cultivated moustaches whilst at sea. It was common for sea faring people's to grow ****** hair in such a manner. Almost as if by magic, a story told by someone without a beard holds subtle undertones of irrelevance. I had learned this over the many months I had spent smoking and talking to locals, and travellers alike. I must confess I had fallen hook line and sinker, I was currently locked in the process of cursing my genetics and dreaming of a more rugged appeal.

By now the black coffees had petered out, and had been replaced by glasses and in some cases bottles of what I can only assume was Spanish red wine. The noise had steadily increased as the drinks flowed, and the crowd of sailors had gradually grown more and more boisterous in there escapades . A few feet away the manager stared intently at the revellers, as if the warn them without words of being too careless in a foreign city. The ever present owner done very little to deter the actions of the pack, who's numbers by now had been swelled from another dozen or so sailors who happened to be walking in the right direction.  The sailors leered shamelessly at the local women, whilst the more forward of them made there own advances. Still the manager stood smoking and staring as if to catch the sight of one of them. Now to the wary eyes of a man returned from a long voyage this would seem like a place, where desire became a priority above all else. This would be an entirely accurate assumption although, if the surface was scratched significantly an underbelly of immorality could be found. For the sailors though, whom were just passing through unlikely to ever return this mattered very little. There only concern was draining themselves on some unsuspecting women, or if so required a *******.

It's hard to say exactly how the altercation was initiated, although I suspect the cat calls of a few sailors had pushed one local over the edge. Whilst the promise of conflict ensured a crowd would gather the bar owner remained just away from the ruckus as if picking his moment. The sailors numbered in 20 or so, and fuelled by red wine and continental beer seemed more than willing to put up a fight. A waiter who had tried to act as mediator between the parties had given up, and left for the roadside and had lit up a cigarette. For a few minutes atleast it looked as though the scuffle would be forgotten and laughed about over eggs at breakfast. There was a barrage of shouting and pulling as the locals slowly lost their temper. By now many people had stopped to stare at the spectacle, this is where I must confess things got really strange. As I have previously stated I have no real idea what brought all of this on, that is to say I have no idea what set the process in motion. It was a well known fact that in times of violence the locals would protect each other with a ferocity and loyalty which could see the most able bodied men come unstuck. I had ordered myself a cream cake, and was skimming through the news from London when I heard a blood chilling yell. I spied the previously placid manager leaving the door which lead to his apartment above the cafe. With the confidence of a man without obligation he sauntered toward the group of sailors. I did not see the knife, I must confess I assumed this old man would take quite a beating at the hands of these sailors. Oh I was wrong, a young sailor fell to the ground silent, as his green shirt went claret with blood. In disbelief his comrades stood around, unsure exactly what to do. The crowd assembled gasped as if to share collective disbelief, the manager had managed to slip off somewhere without provoking any attention. Over the next twenty five minutes an ambulance arrived although I feel even the paramedics knew that this was more an exercise in keeping up appearances than saving any lives. They surely knew that there was very little they could do for this poor boy away from home. Police officers milled around, It was safe to say the bar owner would never be brought to anything like justice for this although, the general consensus was that anyone who got stabbed more than likely deserved it in someway or another. As for the manager  he had long been bundled into the back of some old pre war car and taken far beyond the cries and disdain of world weary sailors. No doubt to reappear a week or so later.
my ipad was running out of battery so I had to wrap it up
(Yes I am acutely aware of how terrible that makes me sound)
daniel f Mar 2013
I was inconsolable as I watched you leave,
I could have lay in bed and cried like an orphan
although we both know all the crying in the world
wont bring you back.

Taunting me almost by staying around longer than perhaps usual
there was nothing realistically I could do to stop you,
so I never really tried.

Ill be seeing you in April, or perhaps march
like that matters now anyway
I havent got the means or the time to chase you, as I would love too,
like some beautiful maid you left me with a promise that you would return again.

I left the patio exactly how you liked it,
now the surfaces covered in snow,
Im freezing Im blue and its raining
why ever did you have to go?

incase you come back early
Ive got some money saved
so I can enjoy you on the beach,
If only for a day,
daniel f Nov 2013
on the pier

the fog was always my favourite, sun shine penetrating barely. I'd always wake up as early as I could and walk down the to sea with a camera. You'd be surprised the faces you see making your way down there. The ever present left overs of last nights festivities, walking home shoulders slumped stilettos in hand. The could've should've would've, well at least I got to know her better kinda guys. I'd always pace out ciggarettes, smoking or trying when I could see the ocean swell. This particular morning was the tail end of October, and didn't we all just know it, the schools had broken up and town was filled with holiday makers.

A milk cart made it's way up the hill past infinite terrace housing, stopping occasionally as the driver scrambled out. I'd seen him a hundred times at least, red faced and over worked delivering orange juice and full fat milk. I'd always make some smart comment when I passed him although today I didn't bother, twenty meters or so away I raised my camera and took a photo. Recently I'd seen a friend, down from London who'd recently completed his masters in photography and well what can  I say? I'm easily influenced. I made my way down through town, past  Georgian architecture and the neon lights of B&Bs;, reaching in deep I pulled out my last ciggarette, ******* hard with shut eyes by the the zebra crossing. Normally I'd have to pay to enter the pier although, at this time there was no one to make me pay. The fog was unrelenting and only allowed vision fifteen meters or so into the distance, I should've been nervous. Common sense dictated with my injury I should've spent the whole time staring over my shoulder although, I found solace in my status as a stranger in town. Two years or two hundred for me at least this could never be home, running to the inevitable end of my tab, I hurled it into the grey salt sea. In the distance a lamp shone at the very end of the pier, it slowly drifted further and further into my field of vision until I was at the old black railings at the end.

Untill my dying day, I'll never be sure precisely what compelled me to stare so sullen into the waves. There's a certain allure to the ever lapping waves of the English Channel, I can't remember precisely which although it's rare I feel compelled as I did that day. My temporary fixation flirted with obsession, seemingly for no reason until it drifted into view. At first I denied it, it couldn't be rational thought dictated it never would be. Not in a nice seaside town such as this, whoever would the body of another be floating and at this time. I must confess I was not particularly shaken as the body floated ever closer, and underneath the pier. My only regret is that I did not take a picture of the deceased, my thinking was that there was no way anyone would chastise me for not reporting it to the proper authorities, and besides it looked so peaceful. Pulled and pushed by unseen forces a suitable representation of the life we all lead I can only suppose. Face down with a  a mane of long black hair, atop stocky shoulders and a well built frame. Like some old roman soldier I suppose, with a puffer jacket and blue jeans the archetypical person essentially. Immediately my imagination compelled me with images of this poor soul thrown overboard somewhere or maybe dumped? probably dumped either way now he was at peace, a drift beyond the shingle in the morning air.
Breathing a deep signs heavy with the realisation that I too would be lucky to inspire someone so much in death as he had, I left the pier and returned home.

— The End —