Up in Smoke

It started out as a humble purr before erupting into a vicious growl, as the beast sank its teeth into its prey. There was a deathly silence as the stiff, wooden body fell lifelessly to the floor. It had been the last reminder of a phone call I had never hoped to make and now it was gone, just like all the others.

I was at my mother's house when it happened. I was sat in front of the TV with the thing on mute and my nose in a book. It wasn't a good one but I was on the last page of it and I was engrossed, when I heard a call from upstairs to look out the window. I ignored it and turned my attention back to the words; they seemed more important. It was shortly followed by a much more urgent call. It still didn't sound serious enough to dignify it with a look, but my father's sudden burst of expletives summoned me to my feet to look outside.
"Fuck."
I made no hesitation and made straight for the telephone. I steadied my nerves and punched the telephone number into the handset and made the phone call I never wished to make. Twenty-six years and I was grateful I had never had to make one like it before.

The neighbours' house was on fire.

I kept as calm as I could, followed the procedure they taught us in school and told the operator everything they needed to know. They thanked me for the call and told me help was on its way. I hung up and made my way outside.

The first thing I noticed as I opened the door was the wall of heat greeting me. I could feel it against my cheeks and it was oddly welcoming. In the street, there was a chaotic hustle and bustle of bodies as neighbours moved nervously between the houses, trying to fathom what to do and how to help. In the sky, the flames made their home, stretching thirty feet in the air and dancing. It was the purest, strongest, brightest orange I had ever seen and it was truly alive. Plumes of thick, black smoke effortlessly slid from its tip and filled the air. We were all powerless as it spread, devouring anything in its path.

Some people dashed to their back gardens to spare their clean washing from being spoiled as it hung out to dry, and others dashed inside to shut their windows to keep the rich smelling smoke out of their homes. Some people were comforting children and soothing them from a panic while others dashed to do what they could to limit the damage. I didn't know what I could do, so I stayed the hell out of everyone's way. I fetched a cold beer, cracked it open and watched. I wasn't alone. This was a spectator sport. For what was usually a quiet, suburban road was now a popular point for people with cameras to drive to and turn their cars around. Some people seemed to get pleasure from watching this part of the world go up in smoke. It was a spectacle, and a relentless one at that. There wasn't a whole lot you could do but to sit and watch.

The excitement was short lived. I was barely at the bottom of my second beer when the flames began to dwindle and turn into a quiver of smoke. It was over. The panic had receded. Fire-fighters had tackled it from the other side and won. Peace was restored in suburbia once more. All that was left were a few tall, blackened reminders of what had happened, and an impending battle with the insurance companies. 

One of the Best

Summer mornings are always the worst. I stagger out of bed, blinded by the sun that pours through the blinds of every room in the house. The first thing I get to see when I manage to peel my eyes open is the first piss of the day resting in the toilet bowl. It's a bright, copper orange and serves as a dead giveaway that I am hung-over. I don't care too much though. I feel pretty good. I feel pretty invincible. I finish up in the bathroom, doing my usual daily chores of vanity and hygiene and check myself in the mirror. I look good. I've shaved five years off my face but I am looking good. There's not a single cut, scratch or nick. I've kept a steady hand when I so frequently get the shakes. I am invincible. It's going to be a good day - one of the best.

I float downstairs and slot myself behind the wheel of my car. It all feels right - mirrors, seatbelt, ignition and clutch. It all feels right. It's going to be a smooth ride, I can just taste it. I point the thing towards work and get rolling. The hours will slip by today. It's one of the better ones. I'll even hit the bars on the way home as a reward.

After dishing out the usual spiel, it only took a round of shots and a couple of cocktails to get her back to mine. Soon we were fumbling with each other's clothes until we were left with nothing on but the skin we were born in. I had to spit on it to get it inside her, but once it was in it was good. We were drunk. She gripped me tightly and moaned like she was set to die. She had claimed she had never done this before, but that was clearly a lie. She sunk her nails into the small of my back, so I bit down on her shoulder and thrust myself in deeper. She liked that. Outside the window a train rolled by. The tracks were so close to the building that when the trains did rattle past, the bulb that hung above my bed would swing back and forth, causing the light to play about the room. It was an irritating distraction. I pulled out, bent her over and buried her face into the pillow, working my way back into her. The light continued to rock back and forth and I felt a migraine coming along. I needed to finish soon before it ruined everything. I pounded away as quickly as I could; bouncing off of her round, white rear. She let out a loud squeal as I filled her with long spurts of warm come. Whether or not she came too, I didn't care. I rolled over and stared at the ceiling as the light gradually came to a halt. I thought about rolling a cigarette. I thought about all the other girls and all the other days. I had definitely had better ones before.

Carnival of Judgement

The chairs were hard, metallic blue and uncared for. They were the kind that folded in on themselves when nobody was sat on them, and currently nobody was seated. We were alone in this vast, stagnant room, in a sea of dirty, paint-chipped chairs. Rows and rows of the uncomfortable planks, just waiting to be filled with the well padded rears of the desperate and lonely. The kind of people who were just one rung above the bottom of society and would be arriving soon for today's freak-show to feel better about their own petty little lives. God knows why we were here so early. She was clearly eager. God knows why I was here at all. I guess I just wanted to get laid afterwards. She sat beside me clutching my arm and resting her head on my shoulder. At least she seemed comfortable, but I couldn't see how it was possible on these seats. She was content, and I guess that meant that I should be too. I had succumbed to her pleas. I had allowed her to drag me here, on the promise that it would be a laugh; that it would be outrageous. She assured me I'd get a kick out of it. I wasn't so sure.

Up at the front was the little wooden platform that would serve as a stage and on top of that were three chairs. Three glorious looking armchairs equipped with thickly padded cushions. Oh how far I have fallen when in this festival of monkeys and degenerates I don't get a little padding to rest on when these inbreds do.

They soon started to file in. The hordes and the masses. They're ready to spill blood today should they not be adequately entertained. They expected the best from their messiah and they refused to be let down. They eagerly awaited his arrival. The clank of metal and springs filled the room as they took their seats.

"Baby, I hope this isn't a sad one."
I just shrugged my shoulders in response. I didn't even know that they made sad ones. I thought it was all just bottle fed reassurance that no matter how shitty your life is that things are always a little worse elsewhere. There is always room to fuck up on a grander scale. One month of unemployment and a handful or rejection letters isn't so bad, when you could have a mild addiction to cough medicine and a healthy dose of crabs thrown in too. How the better-off can laugh at the peasants. I knew it was all bullshit, but the tickets were free and I had a shot at sex, so I couldn't care less about contributing to this abhorrent carnival of judgement. It would just be an hour or so out of my life. Time I would have only spent scratching my balls in bed.

Then the lights came up and a ripple of applause echoed through the crowd until it grew in strength and was soon accompanied by whoops and cheers. The man they had all been waiting for was finally ready to take to the stage. He was amongst his people, his brethren. He stood at the top of the steps that ran through the middle of the studio, dressed in a fine grey suit, with no tie, and lapped up every inch of their worship. His face was smug and his hair neatly trimmed as he made his way triumphantly through the midst of his flock and onto the stage where he belonged. This was truly his domain and it made me sick. I couldn't bear to watch. The big screen behind the stage flashed on with his name lit up in large letters before changing to the nature of today's show.

"I SLEPT WITH IDENTICAL TWINS AND GOT PREGNANT. I WANT A DNA TEST TO FIND OUT WHICH ONE IS THE FATHER OF MY CHILD."

Holy shit. This sounded wild. I leant forward in my chair and took my baby by the hand and held it tightly. I needed to find out how this fiasco panned out.

Grit Beneath My Fingernails

The fluorescent lights of the tube sank me into a deep stupor. Between the barrage of unnecessary information about un-required products beaming down at me from above the windows and the peculiar paint-splattered design of the vinyl floor, I lost all interest in existence beyond the world of my own thoughts. Looking around at the grey faces of the mundane people surrounding me I knew I was not alone in feeling this way. And like most men with nothing better to think about, my thoughts soon turned to sex. It only seemed natural.

All was not lost in the ether of this miserable train ride. A radiant little soul sat opposite me clutching a worn out copy of Edward Abbey's "Fire on the Mountain". I instantly warmed to her. Not only did I warm to her choice of novel, but also to the fact she was reading it from a paper page and not from an electronic screen. I looked at her dainty facial features framed with long, auburn hair - which looked as if it had been woven from silk - and I looked to see if I could catch her eye as they danced across the page. She was engrossed and clearly did not wish to be disturbed. I wanted to approach her, however, and discover which passage of the book she was currently absorbing and whether she was enjoying it as much as she should. It could be the start of a blossoming friendship. It would be a lot easier to approach her in a bar, to seduce her and to never speak again, but to try to start an innocent conversation, to start something meaningful that stretched beyond sex was terrifying to me. I had heard of guys complaining about being stuck in the friendship zone. It was some kind of relationship status that meant a guy would never get to sleep with a female friend, like sex was the only reason for the origin of the friendship and he would be gutted that it would never come to fruition. It must take one helluva cruel bastard to hate women so much that they deem their friendship not good enough for them. It's as though attractive women aren't worthy of friendship. I couldn't wrap my head around it, so my thoughts returned to the girl. There were probably plenty of secluded benches in the next station where we could slip away to unnoticed and screw. I pictured the pair of us hidden around some urine soaked corner, sat on a half-rusted bench, with her on my lap, my fly open and my hand working its way up her summery dress, grinding our hips in animalistic delight. We wouldn't know each other's names but we would share something vaguely intimate, something carnal and primitive yet entirely hollow, before going our separate ways. We’d each find our own methods to deal with the guilt and to try to forget how low, empty and cheap we would both feel. I knew I would find the nearest bar to sidle up to and sink into oblivion, whereas she may well cry herself to sleep. It was neither glorious nor romantic but it was easy and the simple satisfaction and thrill of it would make it easy to forget any stigma or negative emotion attached, and to jump at the opportunity to do it all again with some other stranger.

I looked at her elegantly crossed legs pointed towards me and I wondered if being with such a beautiful creature wouldn't prove too exciting for me to cope with; particularly being with someone who was not only physically beautiful but also possessed a soul that sparked my curiosity and intrigue. I thought of all the things I would try to occupy my mind with in order to keep myself from getting overly excited. I wanted the deed to last as long as possible. I thought about dead fish. I thought about the President of the U.S. and the faces he may pull when sat upon his porcelain throne. I thought about the smell of antiseptic and I thought about the feel of grit beneath my fingernails. It all seemed farcical. To spend so much time thinking about sex when you can't get it or it's not around, just to try your hardest to think about anything else when you're actually with someone. The things some men must think about when trying to keep themselves from coming in their pants. I knew I wasn't alone in this practice; everyone wants to last longer. Finding out these thoughts would be a quicker way into the workings of a male mind than any Rorschach test. To conjure up thoughts that can prevent ejaculation while maintaining an erection is an incredibly bizarre concept to manage, and would speak volumes of the individual's psyche.

I am just a coward though, and without any form of Dutch courage on my side, I watched the fair angel glide from the chair opposite, and with a farewell smile disappear from the train and out of my life forever. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I hadn't even noticed the train had pulled into the station. I had no intention of following her, despite the smile it would just feel creepy. Instead I remained on the train, alone, gloomily aware that I had one less friend in the world. I looked at the other grey faces around me and I knew that this was where I belonged.

Locked Up and Broken

Locked up and broken and breaking out anyway. Breaking out into a madness and viral insanity that is plaguing the airwaves instead of any kind of wild jazz or blues or low down rock and roll. The kind that everybody needs without even realising it. No. Instead we're stuck with this artificial madness of one-upmanship and eternal nothingness. I hate it all. And yet I am stuck. Locked up and broken and breaking out anyway. Too lost to know where to break out into but I try anyway. Desperate in drunken madness. The kind that Kerouac and Bukowski taught me about but never really hung around to show me the way. And now they've all taken it away. The technos. The poliTICKS making you scratch beneath the skin. There are some itches that just can't be scratched and one day we will find our freedom from any suit with jelly in his back. So many of us right now may be locked up and broken, but the good news is we're breaking out anyway. But it's okay. Just like so many others I can crawl out from between my sheets and close the door behind me to face the blistering sun and sit in a bar until the brightness turns to night. That's the best time. Half-cut and surrounded by women and / or girls on their way out and in need of something. I can do nothing but ignore them. But so frequently with the right kind of nod or smile or even walk, one might approach and / or take a liking and let me take them home. Nothing really matters when you can take a girl from a bar and fill her with everything you have. There is no time to fall in love. Someone always gets hurt and there are enough people around right now to hurt you and / or fuck you over that there is no need wasting your time doing it to the people you remotely give a shit about. Besides, nobody wants to aim to be locked up and broken and if they are, then they probably are breaking out of it anyway. Oh to fuck somebody and let out all the loneliness and hope that the loneliness doesn't come back bigger, fatter, thicker and more venomous during the act. It's happened before, it'll happen again. The stars take on a brighter shine on those nights. The moon drags you closer and sings to a spiritual entity that can never be explained. Freedom in the evening. Starlight bullshit. It's all to be let go of. Forget everything and just exist until the sun returns to send us all back to work and to enslave us. The sun, guarded by its clouds, locks us up and breaks us. We're slaves to it as much as money and the whole world of crap just goes on ‘til we can't experience it anymore and have to pass it on to our kids or brothers, or even fathers and mothers if they managed to outlive us. Someone ain’t been living right if that happens though. And I type this all listening to recordings of Charles Bukowski speaking. His voice does nothing to match his words and his attitude. His battle-scarred face bears no reflection in his voice. It lacks edge or any of the ragged wounds you would expect. There is no growl. Perhaps I'm just a slave to the lack of my own imagination and originality for expecting it. I should let go of these things before I truly break. And goddammit I fear I could be breaking. If I ain't already broken.

But I know I'm better than all that anyway.

And I am

the sun sets on another day
and i am drunk
the world rotates around great beauty
and i am drunk
a flower bursts open into flirtatious life
and i am drunk
a puffin flaps its wings in flight
and i am drunk
A barman rings the last orders
there is objection
while i am drunk.

The world rolls
the world goes
So much in life just happens
and it keeps on happening
and I am hungover.

I was once, once so very drunk.

A Little Altercation Down at the Bucket of Blood

In a haze of wine and whiskey
there was a new face in the Kid's bar.
With an eye for the ladies, and a gut full of drink
trouble was never really far.

He was dancing with the Kid's girl
down at the Bucket of Blood,
And the kid didn't take kindly to that,
down at the Bucket of Blood.

"Why don't you wanna share, mister?
There's enough to go around.
You can't keep 'em all to yourself, arsehole
Not when I'm in town."

"I don't keep notches on my bedposts
I keep them on my gun
And if you keep running your mouth off, stranger
you're bound to be the next one."

"I don't care about your notches
I don't care about your gun
And the thing you'll find with my mouth, mister,
is that it's always on the run."

The Kid squeezed the trigger hard
left a corpse face down in the mud.
But the Stranger had squeezed his faster.
And laid his claim on the Bucket of Blood.