Untitled Short Story (experimental short story)

Your body says this:

Back in 1985 I was like a piece of meat in the fridge, wrapped in a blanket, a blank tablet, a blank bullet, bland skin and very tasteless. My taste in music was mild. My mild character was going nowhere, but I loved the smell out of hospital, like I smelled of milk and oats, I got the cravings for milk and oats – all I got was milk and mush. Milk was my main source of food. It began to leave a bitter taste in my mouth and I spit up some milk sometimes because my belly was so full of milk. I felt myself turning as white as milk. My skin at this age was dark-ish, like mocha, it paled over time, keeping a dim colour that made me look healthy even when I wasn’t.

Your body is made out of milk or coffee or whatever it is that you drink. Your body splits in two and your soul leaves you to hitchhike up the road.

Your soul says this:

I am leaving you because I no longer love you and you have only caused me misery and pain. It’s hard to live with such a person as you, and I’ve had enough; I’m leaving you to find someone else. Imagine that, your soul in someone else’s body. Me. In someone worth more. Imagine that, replacing Bob Dylan’s soul, or Katherine Hepburn’s, or Micky Rourke’s. Imagine yourself without me, and how hellish you’d feel. I bet you’d miss me, because you’re only half the person you are without me. Half a man. (Or half a woman, whatever you are).

Back in 1997 you were old enough to know things. Disgusting things, and I was ashamed to be a part of it. Ugly things your body found sexy. But the beautiful thing I saw, which your body found sexy aswell. There were two or three deaths in the family around this time, and I helped you through it, but would you listen? No.

You look like a prostitute without me. I think you could do better. I love you, but you could do better without me.

Your self says this:

Oh. Where am I? Damn, if I could touch her, I would. That smell of salt and water and death and hot vampiric sleaze. Black tight shirts and underwear left to one side. Dark rooms for me to develop and not photographs. If I could touch that, I’d touch it all over. I feel my body moving and swaying and begin to rotate.

This body is growing, still, and I am only young, still, but it’s old and toughened as if I’m 85. But back in 2007 I drank myself to death on my birthday with two friends and we laughed until we died and inside I didn’t know where I was. So I punished my body so much, and my brain still knew how to write and so I wrote things and it was good, but soon I began to feel empty inside. I thought I needed to love someone. I moved house and lived with some friends in the years to come. Married young with this sexy young kitten and she was ferocious; but I was worse. So we divorced after a few weeks and I still felt empty.

A couple of years later I would realise that every year that I drank myself half to death, laughing so much that I’d get a free workout, I realised that when I looked in the mirror, there was nothing to look at. Not really. I might have accomplished some things. Written some books. Poems. Songs. Painted. Played guitar. All that arty stuff. I’d be the greatest friend. The greatest love. The greatest conqueror of night by far. And the mirror would betray me like I betrayed my body.

I switch on the TV and see some actor winning an award for some beautiful performance in some mediocre drama, and I’d see a bit of myself in that actor. And I’d imagine being a famous actor. It’d almost be as if my soul had packed up and left, and gone into someone else; had left with a dream of Hollywood.

Back in 1985, I met my soul at the train station, and I’d promised I’d be good. But then I grew up.

Poem 24/3

The world sees me as a Waterloo Sunset
Sun is shinin, Boyo, summer is on its way;
The world is shining like a bomb-flash –
Bad flesh shining the world is on its way

Outside the world is speaking to me,
Bright glory days ahead of time,
The world says it’s going to murder me
That will be justice for my crime

And punishment are like Oedipus the Everyman
Fighting for what he knows could be wrong,
And all of the sexless patients
Are even writing up their own songs

All mistakes on Earth are all down to me,
Pulsating bacon of desire,
And humanoid satanic robots
Sleeping with blood in their wires,

We missed Heaven and land on Mars,
Or Eris, or whatever is left;
The sunset babies from 5 hours ago
Now a bomb-track with no breath


**Wrote this in about 20-30 minutes, haven't changed much of it, so like most of my poems, it is a rough draft still. Used a small bit of notes, such as "All mistakes on Earth are down to me," and "Pulsating bacon of desire," "Oedipud the Everyman," and "Missed Heaven wen to mars - or eris." The title was the last note left over.

Also, a list of songs written down as answers to questions, (sort of an exercise). I got Q: 'How does the world see you?' A: Waterloo Sunset - the Kinks. And Q: 'What do my friends think of me?' A: Bombtrack - Rage Against The Machine.

Because I was rhymimg, I was using words again, and changing them slightly, like Bomb-track and bomb-flash. Turned into a song, surreal images of nihilist world with a little sci-fi at the end.

Saoirse - and Are We War Mongering?

It's St. Patrick's Day. I'm not going out, unfortunately, couldn't find anyone going out on short notice, because I'd forgot with being hungover all weekend. Anyway, on the train home I found an Irish Republican newspaper (strangely, it was from december), that must have been left by some Irish guy coming to the city for Paddy's Day. I was reading it and it was quite interesting. It has a mixture of propaganda and anger fuelled at both the British and the Northern Irish. I kept the paper, keeping no sides, but knowing it is interesting that the British rule on Irish soil, and Irish Republicans hate this and also hate the other Irish for accepting it. I have a friend from Northern Ireland, but I can't remember his political views. He's a film maker, I'd like to see him make some sort of film on the subject.

You get confused about whose who. Dropping bombs as a method of protest is disgraceful; also using bombs to try and force whoever out of the country. I mean, songs from the 80's and 90's seem relevent now - one I can think of is 'Zombie' by The Cranberries, an Irish band speaking out against the bombing. "What's in your head, Zombie?"

With war still going on and no one listening to anyone, it's hard to get any kind of point across. People turn against Muslims, and Muslims don't listen anyway. There was a recent protest in London, I think it was, and British Muslims protested against the war by protesting soldiers coming home. Bad idea. Now, I'm against war, but I think you should never target a soldier as means of protest against war. It's like shooting the messenger. They're doing a job. I have a friend who is a soldier, and it was like he was defensive in case his job was insulted. Anyway, why is a soldier a killer and a politian isn't?

I keep hearing things like 'it's the sign of things to come.' That sounds apocalyptically bad. People are prophesising their own generation's tragedy. It sounds like the blacks in the 60's when racism was a social norm, and they had to revolt themselves to be recognised as human beings.

Are we going backwards as a species, or what? It just feels like our society is folding in on itself. Time slows down and we go back to how it was back then. The 20th Century had many terrible instances, I can't help but foresee more in this Century.

Liverpool 4-1 - and collecting ideas

Didn't go to Wigan last week, my friend, who is a semi-pro snooker/pool player, had a game. I remember when I lived with him and he let me down with going to his games, he'd come back and make it up by buying a load of alcohol and we'd drink all night watching stupid films and laughing at anything all the time. Can't do that anymore, since he's in a different city.

I was hungover all yesterday after I was out drinking all of Saturday. Thing is, I'd been in town since 6am (got up at 5) and I met my friend (who I've known since we were kids) at around 12pm. We watched the football in the pub (Liverpool v Man Utd) and we won 4-1, and I almost ruined my voice with shouting like I did last month at the Frank Turner gig.

I was never a sport fan, but I like the footy these days, I haven't got much so might as well have something. I love how the Liverpool fan are the most loyal of fans, and our team always end up around 4th at the end of the season. (Even though we are the best and most successful club in the whole of Europe). And the fierce fierce rivalry against Man Utd. And we've lost ont 2 times this season and we're only a couple of points away from 1st place (at equal 3rd right now).

Anyway, we sat in our favorite bar until around 9 or 10pm and we talked for ages. Just about moving out and getting a place to live, crappy jobs, holiday in Europe, which barmaid was hotter. I told him about the novel I was going to work on, which I haven't bothered with, and I knew I wouldn't do it, I don't have the patience or the attention span. But it doesn't matter. I'm still collecting ideas.

I'm not good at making notes on my laptop, I like to write by hand, but I don't even have a paper pad, I should remember to buy one. My ideas are ... well, secret. .... Actually, writing this makes me want to write that story now. Damn.

The Primitive Machine - why we are intrigued by the drunk

At quarter to ten he asked me the time, and I only had to look at the station clock underneath the train times to tell him that it was quarter to ten, not knowing if I should tell him it was in the morning not the night. He was short – up to my shoulder, like a little boy – and he had a long dirty white beard like Father Christmas, and he was mumbling something I couldn’t quite understand, so I said ‘What?’

‘I’m out of it,’ he said – as far as I could guess, that was as close as it got. And I know he was out of it from the numb speech and the glazed dead-look in his eyes I saw when he looked at me to speak. He stunk off piss so bad it was like a baby’s nappy change, or a public toilet with the overwhelming stench of ammonia caught in my nose and mouth. That yellow stink catching at the back of my throat. He swayed on his feet and when he steadied himself he was a step closer to me, shoulder to shoulder.

‘I need something to bring me down,’ he said – again, I’m paraphrasing.

‘You should go get a cup of coffee, then,’ I said. I paraphrase myself, now, because I can’t remember my exact words. But I told to go get some coffee, immediately regretting this in case he wants dome change. But he shakes his head defiantly, No, don’t want.

Yeah, don’t want none of that. I thought of him being in the pub all night – pint after pint. I imagined the first pint yesterday afternoon. I wondered when he pissed himself, or was he doing it as he spoke, maybe that’s why it smelled so strong. I looked down to see if there was a puddle coming to meet my shoes, but there wasn’t.

‘I need a bring down,’ he said, and I almost heard him say Man. I just need a bring down, maaan. I didn’t know what this was.

‘You don’t know what I mean, do you?’ he said. Obviously, I didn’t. What’s a bring down after a piss-up? Whiskey?

‘Drugs,’ he said. Oh yeah.

‘Haven’t got none,’ I said. No money, either.

‘Didn’t ask for any, did I?’ he said. For a second his tone changed and I’m expecting him to bring out a knife and slowly try to stab me, stumbling and eventually giving up, but the situation would be more frightening than it sounds. But he waddles off, with a thick trail of piss air behind him. I can’t help but laugh when he talks to a girl with bright red hair, who clearly ignores him, and he walks again, leaving the girl unable to even breathe a sigh of relief with the stink. He talks to an old woman, about his height, who gets off the Kirby train, and they seem to get in a conversation. She must be too polite to leave him, or a kind Christian who wants to help, but can only offer to listen. I don’t know what he’s saying, but a couple of people stare at him as they pass by, they should at least drop some coins in a hat or something.

He eventually got on the same train as me, and I got on the next carriage down, because he stunk so bad. It was like you could taste the hot liquid through the black felt-like jogging or sweat pants he wore.

He is like a Greek Tragedy, unable to avoid the disaster in front of him, while others – including myself – are just spectators of his life. But why are we fascinated by them? Because we are. We stop and stare, and if we don’t stop, we still stare. Wow, my life could have been like that if I never got a bath. Or, Wow, if I could drink all night, and do drugs in the morning, my life would be just dandy. Or, Dirty bastard, get away from me. It’s funny how close we are to being like that. I think we’re all self-destructive, it’s a primitive machine; what stops us being so primordial is living a non-animalistic life – How clean we are; how well dressed we are; Oh granny, what nice job you have... All the better to keep my life in order and pay for private accommodation away from any riff-raff on the streets.

We are all exposed to danger; we are all animals. What is interesting is how we refuse to know that we are animals. I’m not an animal, I wear pants! Sophocles’ Oedipus and Freud’s Oedipus was an intellectual man who exposed himself to the dangers of reality and has repressed yearnings of patricide and incest. We, as humans, carry the repressed yearnings of death and desire. Those two concepts may or may not intersperse, but both exist side by side; without death there is no life, without desire there is no life. Therefore, Oedipus the Everyman was the animal he fought not to be, and the drunk I saw in the train station was the animal he fought to become.

The desire for anything is in us all – as is death – and the most animalistic action is the desire to kill, as humans we do not want to kill and we don’t want death. What I’m saying is, the desires in life are for the good or the bad, you end up a rich New York stockbroker, or you end up a drunken old man in a train station smelling of piss. We are apart from animals in that we are the human instinctively primitive, with no control over our destiny.

Professional Drinking - Penny Lane - And Calego

Coming back home from work on the bus on Sunday, I overheard this woman talking quite loud on her phone. I started laughing to myself with what she was saying. Stuff like "He's a cronic alcoholic," and I was thinking, wouldn't you want to keep something like that a little more privite? This was as the bus was driving through the roughest part of the city, all buildings boarded up and filth in the streets and writing on the walls. I wouldn't walk through there at night unless you wanted some kind of drug. I think this woman was talking about her husband (or just a male she knew) and she said: "He might as well be my professional drinking partner," which I thought was clever. I had this in my head all the was until it was my stop.

The bus gets closer to where I'm getting off and it passes the Penny Lane bus (I think it was the number 62, I think it used to be the number 1). It's not a tourist bus, just a normal bus driving these people home. And I look at them on the bus and I'm wondering if they're Beatles fans. I mean, not everyone in Liverpool are Beatles fans, but everyone respects them to a certain degree. Most the old fellahs still like them. I was wondering if those people lived on Penny Lane, I don't see why not, I think there are still houses there. It's not really a tourist spot for me, just a another road to the South of the city.

It's funny because I live here. You get to say: "Bloody tourists." It switched round when I go on holiday and I'm amazed by a bank or something. My brother showed me this website thats sell American chocolate bars and sweets, he knew I'd like that from when we went to Florida in 2001 and we bought a suspicious amount of American sweets onto the plane.

I think I'm going to Wigan on wednesday. Going to see my friends I haven't seen in a year. I used to live with them in Uni. It's horrible that's been the quickest year of my life. I had the best time of my life in that flat last year. Got some good pieces of writing done.

Looking over last poem with translations, and I like these lines:

"Zal silences me."
"I am calego."
"Mannen stalks annen mann
mann stalks kvinne..."

Might just keep them in the final one.

Novel - Europe - And Railway Tracks

So here I am at quater to 6 in the afternoon by myself, watching TV and drinking a can of coke, and I'm thinking about writing a novel. I've had the idea for ages, I've had loads of story ideas that were noted down, but I've had one that I thought of in my first year at uni, and I want to write it. I've been leaving it becuause I thought I was too young to write it, but I'll spend some years on it. I don't know how my uni tutor would think of it; he'd be impressed, but he'd know I'd be rushing it as usual.

I just need to have something to do. Short stories and poems do nothing for me.

Still haven't left my job, but been looking. My mate at work, who studies law, likes reading and we talk about books sometimes. It's just one of the many conversations a bunch of us have there: Books, football, girls, drinking, music, films. He likes his non-fiction. I found it both funny and interesting that at 9:30 in the morning, when we finished work, he went into Waterstones bookshop to get a book on World War II and The Holocaust. (It got me talking about Schindler's List).

Anyway, the next day he's says to me, as I'm carrying a bunch of curtain poles, I should forget fiction writing and write a really interesting non-fiction book. I thought that was funny. We then got on talking about quitting the job and stealing a washing machine on our way out.

I'm going round Europe in the Spring/Summer. From here to France, then on a trip maybe through Germany, and ending up in Italy. It will be a three week trip and it's the only thing I've got to look forward to. I won't forget to take a notepad to write while I'm there. I suppose I need to travel to get my thoughts on writing back on track.

This is a painting I did a couple of weeks ago. Don't know what it's meant to be, I just like putting a load of colours together. My sister said it looks kind of like railway tracks.