clinging to the wreckage

I had the joy of speaking to you today… and to your beautiful daughter. I wish I could express to you how I feel. I wish I could explain how much it means to me… how much you mean to me. And yet I must leave you behind and accept that you are beyond me and involved heavily in your life with all the components thereof… one of which I am not. My words are bordering on pathetic. They are pathetic. If you were to read them you would probably feel nauseated and wish that you had not spoken to me. It is said, and I agree, that love is a cruel disease.

Each event in our lives is mixed with excitement, joy, hope, pain, suffering and sorrow. We can never make everyone happy with the decisions we make and we can never have all things perfect. To move on to something, something else must be left behind. Opportunities mean that certain people, animals, bonds, comforts must be left behind so that we can venture into the unknown. What is it all about? What is the right thing to do? If we sit still and contribute all that we can we are told that we are unambitious and that we are afraid of change and will never progress. If we show ambition and make change and leave certain things behind we are treated like we are selfish or a traitor.             And so it is that I have the opportunity to go to work in Madrid, Spain, and I feel privileged and honoured to have received this offer. I am excited at the prospect of visiting Madrid and actually working there. However, it means that my cats are potentially on the brink of

I stank of smoke and didn’t mind because it was your smoke. We’d stood outside together, alone in the rain, and I felt the first bits of warmth begin to soak into my bones. I invited you to lunch and you agreed, so we walked to the hotel where you drank coffee and I drank beer. You opened up for the first time in years and it was like a magical unwinding of the clock, I was transported back to when the flames burnt brightly upon the furnace of our passion. I wondered why… I wanted us to return to what we had… do you not realise that you are still the one I love and want? Sat there beside you I gazed at your lips and your eyes and desired nothing more than to touch your face and to kiss you deeply as we used to. I would write more but I am too drunk.

sometimes even i fear the things i write

White blue days drift rapidly past as I gaze out of my window and sip upon a drink. The drink gradually blurs reality as I see my neighbours walk by. A couple and one child. They look into my window and see me as I take a sip and I see the look of pity/fear/judgement in their eyes. It makes me feel better. Their house is up for sale and I hope that two Suicide Girls move in next door. But, sadly, the couple I saw looking at the house were the classic Guildford couple; conservative, clean, neat, wealthy… the desperation to ‘start a family’ shone brightly from their eyes. I wonder if they get a discount for the hermit that lives in the house next door. He writes, he reads, he has a degree upon the wall, he listens to punk rock and gets drunk but he never ever speaks. Nothing different… ever… just the perpetuation of tradition. I need to move to America where one retains the right to self-destruct.

I can’t sleep to save my life. And in the few restless moments of sleep that I do get there are no dreams to save me from a painful reality in which I tend to do things that I regret; such as messaging people when I’m drunk and asking them to come and see me. The problem in this is that I message people who know each other and I can imagine there is a frenzy of gossip messaging discussing the lonely drunk seeking company. It’s pathetic. As usual, I emerge from drunken reverie wishing that I had a time machine so that I could set it back to yesterday and undo what I said. And yet, at the same time, there is a defiant side of me that tells me I have done no wrong. I have no reason to behave like a prude simply because I think the ones I love or want will one day end my waiting and finally flock to my side. There is no pale-skinned, raven-haired beauty waiting in the wings to save me from myself and as I resort to cliché I end this piece before it saddens me further.

We walked down to the beach, Malibu beach, and sat upon the scorching sand. Her hair was tied back but for a few strands that flirted freely in front of her face. As I sat fixated she took my hand and held it. I realised that there was nowhere on the planet I’d rather be… no one on earth I’d rather be with. The world couldn’t seem more perfect.             ‘you must be so content.’ She said.             ‘I am.’             ‘There are so many beautiful women on the beach.’             ‘I have not seen a single woman on this beach beside you.’ What I said was true. She was magnificent and everyone else faded into a backdrop of insignificance.             ‘Ahhh, you say the most beautiful of things.’ She whispered. A few hours later our friendship was over forever.

Elf-like, witch-like, you spellbind me with your gothic beauty, for it is immense. Swiftly you drift through the door and into the room beyond the bar before reappearing ready to begin the mastery of your witchcraft – the way that you handle the glasses and bottles with your tiny hands as your jet black hair falls over your pale face and shoulders. Mesmerised, I watch on from my seat just before the bar. I notice you frequently glance at me and I wonder if you are curious, interested, or simply uncomfortable because I am unable to divert my eyes for too long. A pain fills me; a pain that stems from the clear knowledge that I shall never know your kiss nor your touch, I shall never hear your beautiful voice and well-formed words used in delicate and tender caring because you are simply too young and too beautiful to choose the likes of me. I’d promised myself that I’d speak to you if ever you reappeared but I simply don’t have the courage now and all is lost.

It’s good when it is a Saturday morning It’s good when the postman arrives And the only post is a film And when there are no women to ask questions And no plans and demands upon my time And there are no people bouncing around in joy and childish elation. It’s good when Morrissey plays on the stereo It’s good when messages arrive but not people And I sit here at this machine hitting its keys And the cats stare at me and do as they please And I contemplate having a bath And feel its warmth as I lie back and continue to read Silas Marner The day stretches out before me and it is filled with the promise of emptiness An emptiness that feels good in the morning but seems almost life-threatening by night. Night time when the loneliness sometimes slowly drifts in like a low-lying fog and blocks the view to all things good. Then, as the weekend stretches and crawls slowly towards the working week life starts to crumble and we fall into unsettled p

In my dream I was at your house with you and your husband(?) and it was descending into aggressive motions, words and stares. We went outside and it was Los Angeles. A low-rider swerved towards us and crashed into the curb. From the window men started shouting aggressively at your husband and asking if you’d been with other people and if he cared and if he was going to do anything about it. I was worried because I felt that they knew I had been with you. You fell over on the pavement, drunk, in a short and awful dress that revealed your underwear as you lay there for a few moments before getting up. I wondered what I was doing there… how I’d got involved in all of this and how it was that you wouldn’t walk away from it. As you rose to your feet you called to your husband saying that you wanted to go out and have a good time… you both got into the car and dove away. I awoke and felt a desolate despair. A helplessness set in as I realised I was powerless to do anyth

It’s chaos and disorder. A meaningful life but one which does not lift me from my nihilism. I do not believe in your doctrines, religions, traditions, values, laws, trends, fashions, obsessions, dreams and goals. I don’t subscribe to your passion for wealth, status and power. I enjoy helping people but not to develop an increasing sense of superiority. And, as a result, I need to spend most of my time alone. So I stumble through disorder; disorder in my home and in my mind and my heart. Via video I speak to my parents and see the pain in their eyes. I switch on the television and the news beams a perpetually looping story of a soldier hacked to death by a man of ‘suspected Nigerian heritage’ and I fear the backlash. And it all seems so staged and fake. I start to wonder if I am simply losing my mind and slipping over the precipice into the depths of insanity or if this is just media manipulation to force some form of fascist immigration law or war or some racist t

They split up, they get back together, then they have another child, they post the images of the unborn child to facebook and make me feel quite ill. It’s like some form of primitive creature that doesn’t have a clue what it is doing? Spewing out an unsuspecting life into a world of turmoil with no hope of anything beyond perpetuating the cycle. I see people walk past and pain shines from their eyes. They seek meaning in this world of emptiness… this plastic existence in which profit is more important than people and profit is sought by those who are corrupt and cruel and fortunate. Why? Why?

Now that I have been released back into the outside world I am able to write once more and, through my exhaustion, whilst it is fresh, announce that I have been inspired several times by several different people in recent days. From a German who wakes up and starts drinking to a Frenchman who is at the top of his career and yet is very humble… and an Englishman who is a genius and yet committed to helping others no matter how large or small, cerebral or menial that the task may be. The weekend was tiring and trying and yet it was spent with a fascinating mix of individuals from various countries all working together as a team with a common goal and, ultimately, it was a rewarding experience. It has also given me a renewed appreciation for free-time and space and peace and quiet and relaxation. Thanks.

Love long thought lost is rekindled somewhat at last and I venture out into the cold wet night to see the one of whom I have thought so many times whilst at such a forlorn loss. The cats complain that I will be away for the weekend and yet I try to make them understand that for certain things we must fight. Cats care not. They do not like strangers. They do not like travel. They do not like me to mingle with humanity. And still… at times, I must. The bond is rare and so many do not care… they simply drift and become silent. When there is one who does care it is important to appreciate this, for some bonds warm the heart and more and the flesh starts to burn in the promise of its infernal delights.

It is said that if one believes in them, dreams can come true… but so often they don’t. Yesterday, however, a dream came true. I travelled to London and Wembley stadium to see Wigan play in the FA Cup final against Manchester City. When I was born in Wigan a few decades ago the town was a rugby town. The football team was tiny and playing in the amateur leagues. They have been in existence for a shorter period of time than most other professional teams, being formed in 1932, and even now, as a premiership team, they engage each season afresh in a relegation battle. A battle that this season it looks like they may possibly be on the verge of losing after a crushing defeat on Tuesday against Swansea. This brings us back to that word that Wigan seem have adopted as their own in these dark times – BELIEVE. We have to believe we can remain in the premier league. Little Wigan went out onto the Wembley pitch yesterday against the wealthiest club in England, last season’s

A very drunken public holiday and the highlight was hearing from you. We could have such fun together and you know that but you can’t escape your husband. We could spend our weekends fucking. We could go on holidays together and spend the time drinking and kissing and fucking. You make me want to do bad things to you. We maintain a close friendship but you know as well as I do that the friendship is simply a façade for what it is that we actually want to do to each other. There was a time I would not have uttered such words, a time when I considered marriage (or, at least, long term relationships) to be a sacred bond of trust. But now I know that marriage is out-dated and unnecessary. I also know that no one is capable of being faithful and I have been the victim of this so many times that I no longer think about it… I simply believe people should pursue what makes them happy and leave behind what makes them miserable. You know this… everyone knows this… but marri

Her face was broken with the emotion that her voice betrayed as she uttered a few words in the hope of trying to maintain a false sense of normality. Two weeks earlier she was in hospital having part of her lung removed and while she was on the operating table the news of her father’s death arrived. It shook the family, as a death always does, but it also left the family with a delicate and difficult decision to make – to tell her in her fragile state and risk affecting her health or to keep the terrible news a secret that burns deeply into the very core of the conscience.   The news was withheld until she made it home and had had a night of rest and sleep in her own bed. It was a deathly blow to one who had held her father in such high esteem… more so in that she was unable to be there to say good bye or to help the family in anyway. She longed to speak to her sons who always calmed her and yet one of them seemed distant and cold and silent. She wondered if he wa

I’m not asleep and I’m not awake. And as my love drifts from Oklahoma to California my mind drifts through states of consciousness. Reality and unreality combine to form a mess of collective chaos. It doesn’t seem to matter what time I enter this melancholy pit for I still awake at the same time… early and unrested. Occasionally I awake hopeful, hopeful that there may be something to read from someone. This hope is crushed as soon as I arise fully from the clouds of sleep and realise that everyone is engaged in their own lives. I’m happy for them. I am happy for my love in Los Angeles for I know that she must be excited and that there must be a reason. I picture her at this moment, sat in a Mexican restaurant, talking about recordings and songs and love and dreams and London and Paris and the strange men who give their hearts for no particular reason. I see one in Oklahoma who seems to believe that he is her boyfriend. Perhaps he even believes it. He writes things

Reaching out, reaching out… but my hands simply grasp in the dark. My heart leaps and misses. My mind fails to connect. Love is a death pool. And here I am, the fool who still hopes and clings and strives only to be greeted with a dark and bitter silence. There are some who remain upon the periphery, always afraid of being too close or of giving too much, but there are others who simply dwindle and disappear… they are so deeply lost in their lives of convention and routine. I’m a broken record, a broken heart, a hopeless and broken fool who still clings to bonds long since severed by one of the atoms.