Pugnacious pundits having parties,
on the left and on the right.
Lowering sanity and lifting madness.
I hear countless words that all seem trite.
Too many fall into their trap.
In happy splendid ignorance,
Clowns perform, and we're all prat.
Such perfectly played incompetence.

They met in the Square. Weather warm and sun sticky. Hannah was in her short dress and sandals. Benedict in jeans and tee shirt and black plimsolls. It was Saturday and they'd decided to give the morning matinee a miss and go elsewhere. We can go and paddle on the side of the Thames, she said. Can we? He asked. Sure we can. He wasn't sure. Is it wise? He said, what with all the crap that's put in? She looked at him. We're not to drink the water, just paddle in it. It's water, not **** pool, she said. Won't we need towels? No, our feet'll dry in the sun. She eyed him. How old are you? Twelve, he said. Not a baby, then? She said. No, he replied. We're both twelve, she said, so let's go get our feet wet. What did your mum say when you told her where you were going? I didn't, Hannah said. Why not? He said. Because she'd have said:Ye cannae gang in th' Thames. So I didn't tell her. What did you say? He asked. Said I was going to see boats on the Thames. What did she say to that? Benedict asked. Dornt faa in th' water, she said. Benedict laughed at Hannah's mocking her mother's Scottish dialect. What did you say to her? Hannah pulled a straight face, stern features. I said, Ah willnae. He laughed again. Right let's be off, she said. They walked out of the Square and up Meadow Row. Did you tell your mum where you were going? Hannah asked. Just said I was going out with you, he said. What did your mum say? Hannah asked. She said ok and be careful, he replied. They walked to the bus stop and got a bus to South Bank. The bus was crowded. They sat at the back on side seats. A plump man next to Hannah wiggled up close to her; his thigh touched hers. She felt uncomfortable. He smelt of sweat and cigarette smoke. She was glad when they got off. She stared at him and mumbled, ye mingin prat. Benedict said, what? Not you, that prat on the bus, touching me, she said. Benedict watched the bus go. You should have said, he said, we could have got him thrown off the bus. Too much hassle, she said. They walked along by the Thames, looking down at the water. Looks too high, Benedict said. Maybe later, she said. So they lay side by side on the grass by the Thames and enjoyed the sun.  Her fingers touched his. They were warm and dampish. He sensed her fingers against his. They turned and faced each other, finger still touching. Do you like me? She asked. Of course I do, he replied. She eyed him. I think of you a lot, she said. Do you? He said. She nodded. Yes, quite a bit, she said. O, right, he said, looking at her, taking in her darkish eyes and her hair in a ponytail. Have you ever kissed a girl before? She asked. He looked past her at the passing people. A man with a dog stared at them. I kissed my aunt once, he said, looking at her again. No, I meant a girl, not a relative, Hannah said. He thought, searching through his memory files. Don't think so, he said. Couldn't have been very good if you can't remember, she said. He never made a habit of kissing girls: other boys frowned on such behaviour. He had kissed a girl with one leg once at a nursing home when he was eleven. A year ago, yes, he said, I kissed a girl with one leg a year or so ago. Where did you kiss her? Hannah asked, her leg? He smiled. No,on her cheek, he replied, remembering. Why did you kiss her? Hannah asked. She said I could. She was twelve and big and had just the one leg. Hannah looked at him. Took in his quiff of hair, the hazel eyes and the Elvis smile-she'd seen a photo in a magazine of Elvis Presley and loved the smile- and the set of his jawline. Do you kiss any girl with one leg? She asked.  No, he said, just that one time. She looked at him, her fingers beginning to squeeze his. Would you kiss me? She asked. He hadn't thought about it. Hadn't entered his mind. Did you want me to? He said. Do you want to, she replied. What would your mum say? She'd say: whit ur ye kissin' fur? . He laughed. It tickled him when she said spoke her mother's dialect. He looked at her face. Where? He said. Where what? She said. Kiss you? Where shall I kiss you? He said, feeling shy all of a sudden. Where did you want to kiss me? He looked away. Crowds were passing by on the South Bank. Don't know, he said, looking back at her. She sighed. Looked at him. Squeezed his fingers tighter. I'll kiss you, then, she said. She leaned close to him and kissed his cheek. It was a short kiss. He sensed it: warm and wet. Was that it? He mused. She lay there staring at him. Well? What do you think of that? She said. He wasn't sure. It felt all right. It was ok, he said. Just ok? She said, looking at him. He nodded. She drew him closer to her and kissed his lips and pressed long and hard. He panicked briefly as if he'd not breathe again, but he relaxed as her lips became glued to his, and he closed his eyes, and felt a mild opening in himself and he breathed through his nose. As she kissed him, her lips pressing on his, she felt a warm feeling rise through her body as she'd not felt before. It felt unreal. Felt as if she'd entered another body and was a spectator in a game. She pulled away from his lisp and stared at him. How was that? Sh asked. He lay there his eyes closed as if dazed. He opened his eyes. Gosh, he breathed rather than said. She blew out and lay back on the grass. He lay back, too. What would your mum say if she saw us kissing? She smiled and said, lae heem aloyn ye dornt ken whaur he's bin. Benedict laughed and closed his eyes trying to picture Mrs Scot saying it. What does it mean? He asked laughing. Leave him alone you don't know where he's been, she said smiling. She turned and looked at him again. He turned and gazed at her. The laughter died away. How do you feel? She asked. Feel about what? He said. No, how do you feel inside? She said. He didn't know. It was new to him this kissing. He sighed. Don't know. How about you? He said. Tingly, she said in reply. Inside me. My body tingled. Is that a good thing? He asked, uncertain of these matters. I don't know, she said, looking at him. Do you want to paddle in the Thames? He asked. No, not now, she said, I want to kiss again. They lay there gazing each other. Let's go elsewhere though, she suggested. Where? He asked. St James's Park, she suggested, we can get a bus there. Ok, he said. So they walked to the bus stop and got a bus to St. James's Park. It was crowded. People everywhere: walking, sitting, lying down, running. They both sat on then grass, then after a few minutes, they lay on the grass. Hannah stared at him. He looked at her eyes. She moved forward and kissed his lips. Pressed them, breathing through her nose, closed her eyes. He closed his eyes as she closed her eyes. His lips felt hers. Warming, pressing, wettish, her tongue touching his just on the tips. He felt as if suddenly as if he were falling and then he opened his eyes and she had moved away from him. Well? She said, how was that? He sensed his lips slightly bruised, but warm and he felt unusually alive. She gazed at him. She felt opened up as if someone had unzipped her and exposed her. It was good, he said, taking hold of her hand, holding it against his cheek. She sighed, it was  good, but it felt surreal, as if it had been a dream, not real, not her kissing. It was, she said, still kissing him inside of her twelve her old head.

Max didn't even want to be there.  His coworkers had invited him, and he hadn't had an excuse handy.  

In truth, Max's coworkers didn't want him to be there, either.  They had secretly hoped that he wouldn't come.  Everyone else was going, though, so they felt bad not asking.  Now they wished they hadn't

Here he was, though, sitting around a table in a seedy local pub, waiting for "The great Garbo: Magician and Hypnotist".  Probably just another hack who was filling time between kiddy birthday parties.  The show was supposed to have started ten minutes ago, but hadn't, and now Max was being forced to socialize with people who he spent a great deal of effort trying to avoid most of the time.  It was crap, and he wasn't happy about it.

In truth, Max was very unhappy in general, but in a way that his brain was unable to put into concrete words.  He'd been unhappy for so long, in fact, that he didn't even recognize that he was unhappy.  He had just long ago come to the conclusion that the world was unpleasant, and he was the only person who understood that.  Everyone else was a foolish prat who could barely keep from being distracted long enough by the next shiny toy to notice.

He regarded his mostly empty beer that he had been nursing.  He heard his co-workers talking about some new superhero movie when the lights finally dimmed and a man walked onto the beer-stained stage and threw his cape (the **** had a cape!) dramatically over his shoulder.  "Good evening, my fine ladies and gentlemen!  I, the Great Garbo, welcome you.  You may have seen so called 'magic' before, but I promise you that when you leave here tonight, you will be filled with awe and wonder!"

Max yawned, rather loudly, to glares from his co-workers, as Garbo continued his spiel.  He looked lazily around the room, hoping to catch the eye of the waiter for another drink.  If he was going to be forced to watch this swill, he was going to at least be liquored up.

By the time Max looked back towards the stage, Garbo had wrapped up, and was starting.  He began with a number of standard tricks with rings and never-ending handkerchiefs.  Each time, Max would mumble something under his breath.

"...Obviously had it up his sleeve"
"Trick ring, there's clearly some sort of mechanism there"
"...had that deck set up before"

Meanwhile, his co-workers shushed him as they attempted, in vain, to enjoy the show.

Soon, though, the magician got more creative, juggling a set of ***** that turned into doves, which then flew back into his hands as ***** again.  Then he turned his entire coat from dingy black to a brilliant  red with a wave of his hand.  Max remained steadfast in his desire to remain unimpressed.  Surely this was some sort of electronic trickery.  He stifled another yawn, then decided to go to the restroom.

He got up, and tapped one of his co-workers on the shoulder.  Was it Reed?  Or James.  His co-worker looked at him warily.  "Hey James, I need to take a ****.  Need to get through".  He looked annoyed.  Must've been Reed.  "Can't you wait until the act is over?".  Max rolled his eyes, and then mustered up as much sarcasm as he could (which was quite a lot). "I'm sure the 'Great Garbo' won't miss me.  I'll just be a minute".  Reed (yes, definitely Reed) sighed and got up to pull his chair back so Max could get out.  Max picked his way through the surprisingly large crowd towards the bathrooms, not apologizing on the way, when he heard a voice.  "You sir, you would like to volunteer, would you  not?"

Max turned, and Garbo was looking at him expectantly.  He hadn't heard what Garbo had been talking about. He recovered his wits and responded "Nah, I'm sure one of these simpletons would love to, though".  From the crowd where he had left he heard someone yell "Oh come on, Max, maybe he can hypnotize you into having a sense of ******* humor".  Max gave the finger in the general direction of the voice, earning him a few boos from the crowd.  Garbo put his hand up to calm the crowd.  "Come now...Max, is it?  Surely you've been impressed with some of the show tonight?".  Max scoffed.  "I'm impressed that you're able to make a living off of parlor tricks", he said, before turning back towards the bathroom.

"Max, I think you need to come up here"

Max suddenly stopped.  He felt like he had been going somewhere else...but that couldn't be the case, he was supposed to be going onto the stage.  He turned and amiably made his way up the few stairs

"Now Max seems to be unimpressed with the show.  Shall I show him some real magic?"

The crowd clapped

Max wondered how he'd gotten on stage.  He had been going towards the bathroom....he needed to...

"Max, you seem unhappy to be here.  I think I know what'll cheer you up, though."

Garbo reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small rubber ball.  

Max suddenly came back to himself.  "I don't know what drugs you gave me to convince me to get up here, but this show is over and I'm leaving.  I'll be sure to let the police know that your show relies on your audience being high"

Garbo grinned a toothy grin as Max walked away, and then spoke right before Max got down the first step, dragging each word out carefully.

"Who's...a...good....boy"

Max stopped and considered this.  I mean...he certainly wasn't bad.  There was certainly room for improvement, for sure, but he wasn't bad, so he must be good.  He slowly turned and stared at Garbo, and was surprised as his mouth started moving.

"I am."

Wait. What?  Max's mind reeled and his eyes widened in fear, but he did not run.  His legs didn't want to move.  His eyes seemed to be locked onto the ball.  That looked like a really nice ball.  He wanted it.

Garbo took a step forward.

"Who's a good boy"

This time Max answered more confidently.  "I am.  I'm a good boy"

The crowd clapped and whistled, though they weren't sure what they were seeing.

Garbo moved the ball back and forth, and Max watched it intently.  
He wished Garbo would throw the ball.

"Who's a good boy!"

"Me! I'm a good boy!"

"Whosagoodboy!"

"I am!  I am!  I'm a good boy!"

Max had fallen down on all fours at this point, though he barely noticed.  Everything seemed to be growing in size.

"Who's a good boy!"

I am!  

"Who's a good boy!"

(I am!)
Woof!

"Do you want the ball?!"

(Yes! Yes, throw the ball!)
(Oh god, what's happening?!)
Woof! Woof!

"Do you want it?!"

(Make it stop!)
(Yes! Throw it!)

Max could smell so many things, now.  He smelled the beer, he smelled Reed's aftershave.  He smelled the strangeness that Garbo reeked of.  Garbo scared him, but Garbo also had a ball.

Garbo finally relented and threw the ball, and a yellow streak flashed by him as an excitable Golden Retriever ran to intercept it.

Max picked up the ball in his mouth and stood proudly.  There was still something scratching at his brain, though, and he couldn't figure out what it w--what had happened?  Everything was wrong.  He couldn't stand up.  Max wanted to yell for help, but to do that he would need to drop the...

...ball!  He had the ball!  The man who threw it was calling for him.  He ran back towards the man, who pointed at the ball.  The man wanted the ball, but Max didn't want to give it back.  It was his ball.  Suddenly, the man had a treat.  Max dropped the ball and took the treat.  He heard a loud sound and he turned to see...

..the crowd.  The crowd was up on their feet cheering.  His mind filled with fear again as he realized that something was terribly wrong.  He felt wrong, everything looked and sounded and smelled wrong.  He was a....

"Good boy, Max.  Good boy!"

Max received a pat on the head, and the scratching at the back of his head faded a little.  "Crate, Max", said the man, pointing to a small crate at the edge of the stage that several people in the audience could have sworn wasn't there at the start of the show.  Max ran to the crate, where he found a bone and a squeak toy, which he bit into to hear the satisfying noise that it made.  Laughter echoed from the outside of the crate as the man closed the door.

"Everyone, a round of applause for my assistant Max!"

Suddenly Max resurfaced.  He was acutely aware now that he was in a cage.  Fear gripped him.  Surely his co-workers had noticed!  He strained to look through the bars of the crate.  He spotted them, and they were applauding excitedly.  He saw, with trepidation, that his coat was no longer on the chair where he'd left it.  He had been erased from their memories.  A guttural terror crept up through his stomach which became a frightened whimper as the sound was forced through his new snout.  No one seemed to hear him.

Max lost track of time, but eventually the show ended and everyone left.  They wouldn't remember what happened, only that they were left with a feeling of awe and wonder upon leaving.  They wouldn't remember Max.  At this point, Max was curled up in the back corner of the crate, unwilling to move even as Garbo opened it, reached in, and started scratching his head.  

Suddenly, as if the final structural support of a dam had been breached, the endorphins from the scratch overwhelmed what remained of Max.  He was filled with the warmth of something he had been unable to feel his whole life.  His tongue lolled out of his mouth and he started panting excitedly.

Max was happy.

You, you asked for my number.
I gave it to you.
You text me.
You say, honey do you fancy a drink?
I think and retort.
By text in return.
I wish you'd go to hell and burn.
"Don't you fancy me"? said he.

Retorted that, I wanted not a soul.
I need my privacy.
He said "why don't you fancy me"?
Insistently.
Do you maybe think I'm thick.
Maybe somewhat sick.
I said, "I think perhaps you should be dead".
Keeping on at me.
Trying to tear me to strands and threads.
Told him, that I wanted no-one.
Henceforth, ensues a psychological assessment.

Why don't you like me?
Said he.
"Grow up" said I.
Don't feed me your insecurity.
Currently I'm flying free.

Had a gentleman, not long ago.
Left me feeling pretty sad.
I loved him so.
But he's not bad.
Poor fellow, he just couldn't do it.

The guy who did text, he pied me right off.
That imbecile calls me out of the blue.
Suggests, may be a night-time of crazy ***.
Reminded me some more of you.
What a prat.
I need it not.
Go get lost and be forgot.
The strange being who talks only by text.
Pretends he likes me, but wanting ***.
I think him rather creepy.
He's out of luck.
I don't give a fk.
Left happy.
Self-respect and dignity intact.
(c) Livvi

Who are my characters? John Prat or Marvin Prat. John Ector or Marvin Ector. Then there is Mrs. Valdez and Autumn. Who are they in relation to John and Marvin? What do you want your characters to show? Who are they? Are they funny? Comical? Tragic? What? What do they want? I want them showing me. I want them as extensions of me. I want to take everything I have learned and put them into my characters. They are facets of my imagination combined into one giant ball, clusterfuck and **** of people that is my life. I want them to display my hatred. My disheveled hair. My looks. I want them to be oddly reminiscent of my family and my personal life. I want them to ignore their own feelings and not be happy. I want them to be happy. I want them to love and cry and weep and feel pain. I want the world to hate them and I want them to hate themselves, I want the world to love them and I want them to love themselves. I want them to fall from grace. I want them to fall down so many times and be on the verge of not picking themselves up. To say **** this  I'm done with it all. I want them rejected and rejected and rejected and keep losing. I want them to win. I want them to destroy themselves. I want them to create themselves. I want them to create their own world filled with imagination. I want to **** them. I want them bleeding and bruised. I want them to end up homeless on the street with nowhere to go with needles sticking out of their veins. I want them to find god. I want them crawling through a river of **** and coming out clean on the other side. I want them to enjoy the little things and hate the little things. I want them to come to life. But ultimately I want them to make me cry. I want them to touch something inside of me that laid dormant for years. I want them to understand and feel my pain and empathize with me like no one has. I want myself in these pages. These sticky pages that combine to make a story.

There’s a man that works next door
We all find him such a bore
He’s ignorant beyond compare
For business he thinks he’s got flair

His ego’s always self-inflated
He has no idea how much he’s hated
He’s a diver, he’s a ducker
He’s a full time big star-******

To see his name in print
Would please him beyond measure
But I think he’s a prat
So I won’t give him the pleasure

The reason I don't like you,
let me put it into words.
You're a prat, a drain and a hypocrite,
a ****** characterless ****.

You talk,  you talk, you ******* talk
But you never say a thing.
You think that you give speeches
Like Dr. Martin Luther King.

But you don't because your boring,
You bore us all to tears.
Ruining every social event,
by banging on for years.

Bla bla ******* bla bla bla,
your monotone drones on.
You're in love with the sound of your own voice,
while we just want you gone.

So pack your **** up in your soapbox,
And turn your answer machine on.
Then ******* back to snoresville,
or wherever the *******'re from.

What's a Mongol?
Della asks Froggie,
her cousin. He sits
beside her on her bed,

flicking through her
CDs. What people
used to call people
with Downs, he says,

taking out a Talking
Heads album, gazing
at the cover. Why?
Who said it? Della

stares at him, tongue
resting on her lower
lip, her eyes bright,
drinking him all in.

Man on the bus said
to me. The *******,
Froggie says. *******?
Della looks at Froggie's

tattooed hands. Not
nice person, he says.
She lays her head on
his tattooed arm. He

flicks some more CDs.
Man said sit elsewhere
to me. If I'd been there,
I'd have floored him.

Floored him? Della
twirls a finger in a lock
of hair. Flattened the
***. She closes her bright

eyes, imagines the man
flattened. Did you? What?
Sit elsewhere. She nods.  
I'd have thrown him off

the fecking bus, Froggie
says, taking out an Oasis
album and turning it over.
She opens her eyes, rubs

her head on the tattooed arm.
Man said I shouldn't be
out in public. Why? Said
they used to lock my type up.

Who was this prat? Don't
know. Stranger on the bus.
Froggie puts down CDs and
rubs her head.  She looks at

him, feels his hand rubbing
her head. Never should have
been locked up years ago,
Froggie says. Were they?

Yes, Uncle said they were,
he worked in a mental hospital
years back. Why? Froggie
kisses her head. People were

ignorant or ashamed; locked
them out of sight. Why?
She hugs Froggie's tattooed
arm. Don't know, Del. She

closes her eyes. Tears seep.
Run her cheek. Froggie wipes
them off with his finger and
licks it. Not worry crying over.

She kisses his arm, hairy,
tattooed, blue and red, yellow.
Put on the Stone Roses. Della
takes the CD and puts it on her

lap top and sits next to Froggie.
They kiss lips and rub noses.

Where would I be
Without the Internet and Tellee?
Yes it’s telly I know,
With its glitzy glow.
They’ll be watching down there in Walthamstow.

X Factor, Big Brother and many a quiz,
They are the equivalent of ol’ Show Biz.
They say we are ruled by all this media,
That all those videos are a bad idea.
Without them though it would feel quite queer.

Newspapers now have become old hat,
There’s not a lot we can do about that.
I seem to live in Facebook Land,
But many say it ought to be banned.
They bury their heads in that golden sand.

The Google answers my every question:
Lots of info for my digestion.
Facebook’s full of gossip and chat,
There’s every scope for acting the prat,
So if you don’t like it, just Take That.

I’m on the net most every morning.
Sad to say, it never gets boring.
(Though it still might carry a Government Health Warning)!
Near Noon I have to drag myself away,
But not too many kids are out to play,
It’s video games for them all day.

Any kids about, they’re on their mobile phones.
They’re starting to look like devoted clones.
They hardly look where they are walking,
Busy reading and occasionally talking.
The traffic they are always baulking.

To real life they pay no attention.
They all deserve to be in detention.
I have to wonder how brainwashed we are,
Let’s go on a show and become a pop star.
It’ll soon be empty in the bar.

Social Networking is what they call it,
So very easy to install it.
Instagramming is now the thing,
It’s all about the imaging.
There’s nothing like that internet ping.

So there you are, The Media Rules,
Thanks to all these technical tools.
Soon there’ll be no need for schools,
But will we make geniuses, or a flock of fools?

Paul Butters

© PB 5\9\2015.

Reynard and I
held back
after biology
while the other kids

had gone
and we walked up
the corridor
I could have scored that goal

lunchtime
if Goldfinch
hadn't got
in my way

he's always
where you don't
want him to be
Reynard said

I saw Jeanette
walking ahead of us
with her blonde friend Angela
Jeanette had class

I thought
her friend
was a short
mouthy girl

but Jeanette
was quite reserved
and looked at you
as if you had stepped

in her sunshine
but I liked her
and that quick kiss
I snatched the other day

still felt stuck
on my lips
Angela had short tight
blonde curls

Jeanette had long
dark hair reaching
her shoulders
I gazed

at her thin figure
her arms by her side
the satchel
over her shoulder

Reynard was still talking
about the football lunchtime
I was looking
at Jeanette’s sway

of hips almost unseen
yet visible
to the trained eye
the way her legs

came down
to her well heeled shoes
the white ankle socks
think we ought

to try get Frazer
on our side
he'd be great in goal
better than Dunton

the prat
he couldn't save a goal
if the ball
was as big as he was

Reynard said
yes we must get Frazer
I said
wondering how I’d get

that kiss
that Jeanette promised
the lips tempting
and her cheek

just visible
the place my lips
touched
the other day

and the kiss
just stayed there
and wouldn't
go away.

He’s standing in front of me
Wearing a ten-gallon hat
And I think, take it off
You’re in the city, you look like a prat
But it’s only when you get a talking
That you really begin to understand
He may be an old cowpoke
But he’s really worked the land
Sweating in the midday sun
With a little cowgirl on the side
A smile flashes across his face
A knowing that he can’t hide
Yes I’ve drank in smoky barrooms
I’ve taken a few hotties on the lash
I’ve seen clear mountain mornings
I’ve even railed with Johnny Cash
So don’t judge me by the tatty hat
Or by my faded wrangler jeans
Because looks can be deceptive
When everything’s not as it seems
I’ve seen the world, I’ve been to town
I’ve know the love on a woman’s breath
I don’t mean to bone, but leave me alone
Now while I collect my redundancy cheque.

The day after
Janice’s gran
had taken you
to see the film

The Ten Commandments
you had gone with Janice
to Jail Park
to ride the swings

and she talked of the film
and the parting
of the Red Sea
and the drowning

of the Pharaoh’s men
and the horses
and the writing
on the two tablets

of stone
shame the horses
had to drown too
she said

they hadn’t done
anything wrong
it’s a matter of being
in the wrong place

at the wrong time
you said
but those poor horses
they didn’t ask

to be the Pharaoh’s horses
you swung high
on the swing
your feet reaching up

towards the sky
Janice was beside you
she wasn’t swinging so high
and those poor slaves

she added pushing
her swing higher
by moving her legs
and arms

why were there slaves?
why can’t people
be nice to each other?
I can imagine Cogan

in my class
being a bit of a pharaoh
given the chance
the fat ***

you said
maybe he’s not
treated right at home
she said

maybe that’s why
he’s like that
no he’s just a prat
you said

who likes to bully
other kids
does he bully you?
she asked

he promises
to smash my face in
but when I waited
for him the other day

after school
he didn’t show
you said
my gran said

to be kind to people
and try to see
their better side
Janice said

I do try
you said
but his ugly dial
gets in the way

and she laughed
and said
we mustn’t laugh
it’s a shame when people

have to bully others
I’m sure he’s got
a good side
your feet were now

almost touching
the sky’s rim
well if he has
he must keep it

in his pants
you said
she smiled
and shook her head

her brown sandals
and white socks
seemed to scrape
the sky’s skin

but gran said
Janice almost sang
that none of us
is free of sin

and her voice drifted off
into the blue
just the two swings
on that Monday morning

and Janice
and you.

An ill man’s guilt


I’m perfectly fine, I keep telling myself,
I’m loaded up to my eyeballs, swimming in my wealth.
I've got a best friend who's with me all the time,
His favourite drink is lager and lime.

Yes officer my name is Dave, my address?
It's number 1234 The Cave.
What am I wearing officer? What a strange thing to ask.
I'm wearing a penguin suit and an eye glass?

What's that Steve? I won’t mention that...
They will think I am loopy or some kind of prat!
Yes officer, No I am fine, why do you ask?
I want to complain and put you to task!

Don't raise my Voice?? What do you mean?
Tell him Steve, to stop being so mean!
Get off me, what's going on?
Help me someone my mind has just gone!

Yes officer, there is medication I take,
It's at 1234 down by the lake.
Hello there doctor, I have a sore throat,
Steve help the Doctor out, don't just stand there and gloat!

A drink doctor? I'd love one, a saccharin as well?
Impressive what's in it?? Go on. Do tell...
I’m tired Steve let me go to bed!
I've not slept for months, let me rest my weary head.

OK doctor do what you like,
But be careful doctor, those syringes do spike.................
Apologies doctor for the other day,
My mind just wouldn't come out to play!

Who's Steve Doctor?? Ask him yourself! He’s just there,
The one with a jumper and ginger hair,
No Doctor Steve isn't dead,
He went for a long sleep in his double sized bed.....

Steve was my brother Doctor, can you not see?
He died in the summer of August...1973
I should have been there Doctor, when Steve passed that night,
But I was too busy injecting, I was high as a kite!


Before the Guilt


Steve? Listen to me,
When mom goes out, it’s just you and me,
We are going to play a game called hide and seek.
You be quiet when you hide, and do not speak!

Do we have an understanding? Or do I draw you a picture?
Or use those cards, that you are familiar?
That's it boy, keep it to yourself,
I've got to locate my 'medicine', off the top of the shelf.

Right then she's gone, you go and hide like I said,
Don't be so obvious and lie under the bed,

Stupid boy... he's sixteen years old going on three,
I'm rattling badly, I need the karma in me,
Switch on the music, get out my ****,
My usual is coming round, so I can plant my seed,

Steve? I can't find you...I'm a sarcastic ****!
He's probably fell asleep. With any luck,

Need to open the windows, this gear is filling the room,
The ****** is bubbling nicely, on this battered old spoon,
My hands shaking, I need to hurry this up,
The needle is drawing nicely, the syringe is full up,

Time to meet karma, widen my eyes,
Needle in my legs, it's easier to hide
The rush in my blood, filling me with calm,
I'll light up my joint, it won't do any harm.

Feeling drowsy, this **** is so strong,
I'm out of my face, but my feelings are wrong?
The pain, pounding in my chest,
I'm sweating profusely, right through my vest,

Can't move, falling asleep in the breeze......
Steve???.....Steve??....STEEEEVEE???!!.....

Can you hear me? Can you hear me? You *******!!!
Your brother hung himself......while you were plastered!
I'll never forgive you for what you have done...
I can't even look at you...You are no longer my son!

Hey Skinny Kid
one legged Anne said
have you ever seen
a *******?

no
you said
thinking it
some kind

of fish
she nibbled
at her scrambled egg
on toast

at the table
in the children's
nursing home
you mouthed

Cornflakes and milk
Anne was next to you
eyeing
the nursing nun nearby

would you like
to see a *******?
Anne asked
in whispered voice

thinking it
some rare find
you said
yes ok

where will I see it?
the beach?
she almost choked
on her scrambled egg

are you all right Anne?
the nun asked
coming over
her black and white habit

swishing as she walked
yes
Anne said
egg went down

the wrong way
well be careful
the nun said
and walked off again

yes the beach
if you like
Anne whispered
trying to keep

a straight face
but you're sure
you've not seen one?
you nodded your head

not that I know of
you said
have you asked Sister Bridget?
you added

giving the nun
a look
o yes she's seen one
Anne said

straining the muscles
in her face
did she say so?
you said

o I know she has
Anne said
you mouthed
more Cornflakes

and milk
little Miss Sad
sat nibbling
at her toast

her tiny fingers
holding hard
the other kids eating
their breakfasts

the morning sunshine
shining through
the windows
after we've finished

I'll show you
Anne said
show him what?
Malcolm asked

who was sitting
on Anne's other side
never you mind prat face
Anne said

only special people
can this see
what I'm showing
Skinny Kid

then I'll tell Sister Bridget
Malcolm said
kiss my backside
and drop dead

Anne replied
Sister Bridget
Anne swore at me
Malcolm said

the nun shook her head
and said
Anne it's a sin to swear
God is listening

you know
and so you sat
and wondered
if you'd ever see

what it was
one legged Anne
was going
to show.

Dalya met Baruch in Oslo,
a small cafe in a back street;
he was eating a cream cake

and coffee. She was fuming
over the Yank ***** that she
shared a tent with back at

base camp. It’s like sharing
with a scented skunk, she said.
Baruch listened, the fiery girl

sat opposite him, stirred her
latte, spat out words. Baruch
was halfway through the Gulag

book, the Solzhenitsyn eye
opener on the labour camps
of Russia. Dalya’s gripe seemed

pretty shallow; her language
left little to the imagination,
rough words, hard chipped,

chiselled out of rock sort of thing,
he thought, watching her mouth
move the words. Always about

the men she’s had, Dalya said,
as if I cared a monkey’s. Baruch
forked in more cake, fingered

off cream from his upper lip
and licked. They’d picked up
the American in Hamburg,

squeezed her into the overland
truck with the others. And oh,
yes, where she's been, Dalya said,

she’s been under the Pope’s
armpit, no doubt.  She sipped
the latte, stared at Baruch, her

eyes dark blue, her lips thin, her
hair dark and curled. Maybe she
has, Baruch said, but what’s it to

you? I have to hear her jabbering
on in the tent night after night,
Dalya said, and me trying to get

to sleep. You can always swap with
me, he said, she can share with
the Aussie prat, who’s in with me.

She didn’t reply, but looked at her
latte, stirred with the plastic spoon.
And what would my brother say?

He’d tell the parents when we got
home. Baruch knew her brother
wouldn’t have minded, he was often

drinking and drunk till blinded.
Baruch had only suggested it in
jest, nothing really meant, but she
was preferable to the Aussie in his tent.

Betty sips her drink and crosses
her legs and wonders if Chowbrew

will ever come as he said he would
and as she has been waiting for

over an hour she thinks he’s not
coming, thinks he’s gone off with

another. She sighs. All that time getting
ready, putting on the new dress,

making sure she’d put on fresh
underwear, showered, washed

her hair, filed her nails and still
he hasn’t come. Betty, her mother

used to say, men are like buses,
if one doesn’t turn up another’ll soon

show, but it didn’t follow in her

experience; if one didn’t show,
she’d be left waiting until the bright

moon shone and the shining stars
flickered in the dark night sky, and

then she’d go home to bed, tuck
herself under the duvet, pull it

over head, and cry or swear or
maybe both. She looks at her

wristwatch.  He isn’t going to
come; she mutters to the air,

he’s left me out to dry, all that
time I wasted; now I’m going

to cry. Betty, her mother often
said, men have only one thing

in mind, oh, yes, they’ll bring
you flowers, chocolates, buy

you a meal, get you drunk,
but at the end of it all, it’s

getting you into bed that they
are after, and she remembers,

in the background her father’s soft
laughter. She empties her glass

and is just about to leave, when
a breathless Chowbrew stumbles

into sight, face flushed, clothes in
disarray, Sorry I’m late, got the

wrong cinema, she hears him say.
What an ****, she muses, what a

prat, doesn’t know where he’s
going or what he’s at, but at least

he’s here, she smiles and says,
Good to see you, Chowbrew dear.

Isolde looks from the window
of her old bedroom,
she's not been in there
since they took her
to the asylum years before.

Tristana, her lover,
is sitting on a white chair
on the lawn
talking to Isolde's mother.

Her mother has the same
pinched features,
thin lips as if drawn
across in ink,
the narrow nose,
peering eyes.

Isolde smells
the mustiness
of the room,
the curtains the same,
the wallpaper fading.
Her mother's eyes  
have a look
of fear in them.

Her sister sits
beside her mother
hawk-like,
hands on the arms
of the chair,
eyes fixed
with that steady stare.

Isolde recalls
the last time
in the room:
the night they
came for her,
men in white coats,
the ambulance waiting,
flashing lights,
voices shouting,
her sister crying,
her father ordering
this and that
(the prat).

Father's dead now,
good riddance,
she muses,
running a finger
down the pane of glass,
seeing her lover
sitting there,
gesturing with her hands,
head tilted to one side.

Not once
did her mother visit her
in the asylum,
not a word sent
or love or concern
expressed.

She sits on the bed,
the springs complain,
the bedspread
pushes out dust.

She remembers Tristana
that first time
in the asylum,
that first meeting,
the side ward,
the nurse dragging her
along the passage,
cursing, gripping
her nightgown.  

The fat nurse let her
drop by the bed;
Tristana sat on the floor
wide eyed,
opened mouthed.

Isolde had struck the nurse
with the flower vase,
smashed it,
flowers spread
across the floor.

The nurse's head bled.
Looked worse than it was.
She smiles.
They locked her up
for weeks for that,
saw none,
except the nurses
who fed
and bathed her
cruelly.

Worth it.
She moves on the bed,
the springs sing.

She gets up
and goes
to the window again.

Tristana is subdued now;
the mother is talking,
moving her hands in the air
as if learning to fly.

Her sister sits crossed legged,
hands on her knees.
Dumb expression.
The mother mouths words,
moves her head
to one side bird-like.

Isolde recalls
the first kiss
on Tristana's lips.
In the toilets
off the ward,
evening time,
overhead lights
flickering.

Lips meeting,
soft, wet,
eyes closed.

They slept in
Tristana's bed
in dead of night,
close for warmth,
hands holding,
bodies touching.

The mother looks up
at the window,
her eyes empty,
hollow dark holes.
She gestures to Isolde
to come down,
her thin hand
moving icily.

Isolde walks
from the window.
On the glass,
where she had breathed
breath to smear,
she had finger written,
Isolde's mind and soul
once died here.

Never eat humble pie
I will tell you the reason why
they never give you commissions you see
most just expect it.. boy they take the ***

Don't go to the Co's like that
stick that in your pocket ,,, your cap
don't you go in too smart
he will think you are a prat

Remember to stand straight
and for god's sake don't look at him
this could be a promotion or demotion
never eat humble pie and don't look at him

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Benedict
Christina called
as I got off
the school bus

I went over
to her
standing by
the wire fence

surrounding
the girls' playground
she took my arm
and walked me

along the fence
out of earshot
of others
I dreamed

of you last night
she said
did you now
I said

watching a prefect
looking over
what was I up to?
that would be telling

she said
that's the point
I said
some girls

were playing skip rope
singing a rhyming song
she looked at me
with her brown eyes

you kissed me
she said
is that all?
I said

the prefect  was walking
over towards us
his lanky frame
moving

at a steady pace
it was a long kiss
she said
how long?

I asked
I didn't time it
she said
but it was good

made me feel
all unnecessary
as I heard
my cousin say

when she stayed
with us
what are you two
up to?

the prefect asked
you
he said to me
should be making

your way
to the boys' playground
not here
chatting up girls

Christina
looked at him
then at me
she dreamed of me

last night
I said
she was just
telling me

I bet no one
dreams of you
I added
looking at

the lanky prat
do you want to go
to the headmaster?
he said

giving me
the stern eye
Christina
was looking at me

her eyes like
melted chocolate
got to go
I said to her

see you lunch time
at recess
on the field
I walked off

the prefect stared
after me
Christina stood
with her hands

in front of her
her thumbs playing
with each other
I turned before

I went out of sight
and blew
her a kiss
which she pretended

to catch and put in
her school skirt pocket
the prefect scowled at her
as she walked away

patting my blown kiss
next to her thigh
easing out
a school girl sigh.

I passed Enid's father
on the stairs
of the flats
gave him an icy glare

he was ******
so didn't care
he went down
and I went up

he was whistling
some song
I knew he was a prat
but what was wrong?

later that day
I met Enid
in the greengrocer shop
in Meadow Row

getting potatoes
and greens
for my mother
not to forget carrots

which I almost did
she came in the shop
in her faded red dress
her hair in a mess

red marks on her arm
one eye closing
as if half dozing
what did you want

young girlie?
the greengrocer
asked her
she gave him a list

and he sorted it out
I carried my bag
to the door
I saw your old man earlier

I said
gave him an icy glare
she looked at me
then at the carrots

orange and raw
then at the door
didn’t say anything
did you?

she asked
no I kept shtum
would have done
if I didn't think

he'd take it out
on you
I said
is this 3 pounds

of spuds?
the greengrocer asked
can't make out
the figure writ

she gazed
at the piece of paper
and said
yes 3 I think

and off he went
shoulders stooping
head bent
what happened

this time?
I asked
what did he do?
he said I slept in

too late or spoke
out of turn
Enid replied
belted me

thumped me
then I cried
the greengrocer
filled the small bag

she held
in her small hands
and took her coins
and gave her change

deep inside
a child wept
near to me
but out of range.

A penny for the thoughts of a prat ne'er -do-well could easily garner a million dollars from the wishing well !
The riffraffs field of dreams , vividly troubled , hurried minds with selective memories of the upmost variety !                                                                ­                      Collective apparitions rendered due diligence ? Befuddled reasoning with questionable significance !
If a kite high in the sky was their imagination it would lie in the ionosphere invisible to all of us  
Incredible tales of brave armored horsemen , fighting dragons , extraterrestrial warships !                                                                ­    Lunchtime by the mountains of Mars and Venus , catching twenty winks in the Little Dipper ?                                                                ­    Riding on a comet to the Horse Nebula , hopping from rock to rock in the Asteroid Belt ?
Beware of the creative mind with their allegations , tales that could usurp the kingdoms Court Jester !
I've zero tolerance today for fools , little green men , martians and the man on the moon ?
For I've a prior commitment this late afternoon , a spot of tea with an old chum on the plains of Neptune !

Myfanwy Price plopped in the armchair, sipped at her drink, gazed at the ceiling with a slight squint; spotted a drawing pin that broke up the off-white space like a boil on the buttocks. If Joshua Jones thinks he can drop me like a hot coal he can think again, she moaned to the room in her alto voice that clung to the air around her dark-haired head like a bad smell. Thinks he can do that to me, does he? I’ll show him, she mused darkly, holding the glass above her head, peering down at her slippered feet that lay there like sleeping puppies. After all I’ve done for him, the po-faced prat, she muttered, bringing the glass down to her lips, taking a sip as though it were poison. Just like her dad, dreary as dripping, chapel bred born and dead, at least in the head, she mused, crossing her legs disturbing the puppies, peering through the glass, imagining Dai Davies coming through the door of her bed-sit with an armful of flowers and chocolates, a cuddly kiss with a promise of more, as the evening sky grew dim as her brother Bryan, the kiss lingered in her mind and over her fantasy lips. Mum was right about men, she groaned, wondering if poison was too quick for Jones the Bones or whether she could smother him with a pillow as he laid sleeping in that squat flat of his, where she’d slept once in the single bed that smelt of onions and rotting flesh. She scratched her fleshy thigh, gave a sigh, pulled a face at her reflection in the darkening window, wanted more than wanton ***, the sight of Jones the Bones hanging from the window with his trousers round his skinny ankles, his buttocks bare for all of Cardiff to see and stare. She stood, poured herself another drink, placed a record on her gramophone. Buddy Holly’s Peggy Sue, a daydream of being in his manly arms, and being squeezed, and adding her alto groan to that of young Buddy’s baritone or tenor or whatever. She waltzed the room with her partnered glass gave it kiss and squeeze. Remembering her dad’s stern face; his sermon voice that rattled timbers, she kicked her leg like a dancer, spun it round and round until it got dizzy; plopped in the armchair with a fit of giggles; spilt drink on her dress that seeped to her drawers; sniffing and sighing she poured it all down in a drunken swallow; watched the evening sky darken like her mood and tangled hair. Jones the Bones would pay, she sighed. He’d not lay her aside like an empty glass; go off for another to kiss and cuddle in his dingy flat with its onions and flesh, rotting and foul, she mused sadly, rubbing her breast, pulling her bra that had slipped in her dancing. Mum was right about men, with their ***** thoughts, their wanton ways, wandering hands over hills and stays. She stared at the glass; with a deep dark sigh, she crossed her legs; let the sleeping slippered puppies lie.