Wednesday 25 March 2015

Writing 'Waiting for Beckett's Endgame'

In November last year (2014), I wrote a script which was read out in the Friday seminar. It was the first time anything I'd written had been read out by other people. It was an incredible feeling for me.
Two weeks ago I was put into a group of three to do a presentation on Beckett. I had an idea and put it to the group that I could write a script, a didactic play in the style of Beckett, which would inform the audience about the man and how he wrote.
I wrote the script that evening (it took an hour) and sent it to the other two actors. They loved it thankfully. The next day I put it to them that another actor (who was going through personal difficulties) could be added to our group. I'd make some changes to the script by adding a new character. I made the changes that evening and sent them all the script. They loved it.
Over the next two weeks, we rehearsed the play and the feeling I got from watching them act out the works and direction I'd put on the page was life-affirming. To see them bring themselves and put themselves into the character and make the characters something greater than what they were was something indescribable.
On the day of the presentation, everything went well (apart from a couple of missed lines - thankfully, not by me) and we had many laughs and a round of applause at the end. I was over the moon the next day when a young girl went out of her way to compliment my writing. Honestly, it's the greatest moment of my writing life.
And here is the script:


WAITING FOR BECKETT’S ENDGAME
‘A Didactic Comedy in Two Acts’


Characters

Swif      -    Alex Beloe
Beck      -    Chris Chadwick
Wild      -    Lavern Dexter
Joy       -    Bethaney Howe


ACT ONE.

THERE ARE THREE CHAIRS AND A TABLE BEHIND BECK. ON THE TABLE IS A GREEN BANANA ON A STAND. A METRONOME IS BARELY AUDIBLE. JOY ENTERS FROM STAGE LEFT.

JOY:      ‘Waiting for Beckett’s Endgame’.

BECK ENTERS STAGE RIGHT HOLDING A CANE. HE’S WEARING A DRESSING GOWN AND A HAT.

BECK:     ‘A Didactic Comedy in Two Acts’.

BECK SITS IN A COMFORTABLE CHAIR. JOY STANDS OVER HIM.

JOY:      Are you sleeping?

BECK:     I am respecting the naked stage.

JOY BEGINS TO STACK CHAIRS, BEFORE UNSTACKING THEM AGAIN FOR A PROLONGED PERIOD.

BECK:     What are you doing making all that racket?

JOY:      The sun is threatening.

JOY GOES QUIET. SWIF ENTERS STAGE LEFT AND STARES AT JOY.

BECK:     [PAUSE] What are you waiting for? Is there a ‘pause’ in the script?

JOY:      There is always a pause in the script. They’re everywhere.

BECK:     Then why is there silence for an extended period?

JOY:      A young girl has just walked in.

BECK:     A young girl?

JOY:      Yes. Is that symbolic of something do you think – a young girl glides in. Is it symbolic, do you think?

BECK:     Beckett is never symbolic.

JOY AND SWIF STARE AT EACH OTHER FOR A PROLONGED AMOUNT OF TIME.

BECK:     Is this pause in the script?

JOY:      Yes. We ‘stare at each other for a prolonged period of time’ it says.

BECK:     Ask the creature what it wants, will you?

JOY:      What do you want?

SWIF:     I’m a secondary character added to accentuate the essential existentialism with abstract surrealism, miss.

BECK:     The illogical nature of existence, yes, supplanted within a rejection of - realism

WILD:     There you are, you villain! A curse on your verdant nature.

SWIF CONTINUES TO STARE AT JOY.

JOY:      She is young.

WILD:     She is as old as time.

BECK:     Time is fleeting.

WILD:     It waits like a shadow of a distant soul.

BECK:     Waiting for that last breath.

WILD:     How right you are. Wild.

SHE OFFERS HER HAND TO SHAKE, BUT WITHDRAWS IT WHEN BECK SPEAKS.

JOY:      (Jay-Jay)

BECK:     Jay-Jay! Eternity will crumble before you hear my call. [Pause] Heed me!

JOY BEGINS STACKING AND UNSTACKING CHAIRS.

WILD:     You are a man of vigour.

BECK:     Beckett adores vigour.

WILD:     And pith.

BECK:     Piss. [Pause] Your aide.

WILD:     She tests! me.

BECK:     Vex me?

WILD:     Try not to vex me. She vexed me once.

BECK:     The result?

WILD:     She never did it again.

JOY:      Why – what did you do?

WILD:     I gave her an extended and rambling monologue. [SHE SPEAKS PROUDLY] Frag---mented.

JOY STARES AT SWIF QUIZZICALLY.

BECK:     Is this (pause in the scr-)

JOY:      Yes, I have to stare at her quizzically, it says.

WILD:     Quizzically? That sounds little like Beckett.

JOY:      What does that mean?

WILD:     Beckett would never use the word ‘quizzically’. He’d say - suspiciously.

BECK:     Dubiously.

WILD:     Quite. [SHE PAUSES, THINKING] But we must for now adieu. [COMMANDING] Avanti, nag!

THEY MOVE OFF AS TROTTING HORSES. JOY IS DEEP IN THOUGHT.

JOY:      Why would he give her a rambling monologue? Beckett wrote in French.

BECK:     [VIOLENTLY] Because Beckett had a penchant for logorrhoea! [IN ANGER, HE SWIPES AT JOY WITH A CANE, BUT HITS ONLY AIR. JOY RUBS HER ARM IN MEMORY OF PREVIOUS INJURIES]

JOY:      Don’t shout. I’m not deaf.

BECK:     What?!

JOY:      [UNDER HER BREATH] I just think you’re wrong about quizzically.

BECK:     [SHARPLY] Critic!

JOY IS HURT. SHE OVERACTS TERRIBLY. BECK SMILES, BUT TAKES ON A CONCILIATORY AIR.

BECK:     Come, let us embrace, Jay-Jay, as co-dependants do.

JOY APPROACHES AND THEY EMBRACE FLAILINGLY, BECK WITH ARMS RAISED AND JOY BEHIND. JOY PULLS BECK’S HAT DOWN OVER HIS EYES.

BECK:     So it is that winter does suddenly fall on man and beast.

JOY:      [SARCASTICALLY] How profound.

BECK:     Beckett is always profound.

JOY:      [UNDER HER BREATH] Just bad syntax is all.

JOY GOES BACK TO STACKING AND UNSTACKING CHAIRS.

BECK:     The end of Act One arrives uncelebrated…

END OF ACT ONE.



ACT TWO.

JOY IS STACKING AND UNSTACKING CHAIRS. ON THE TABLE IS NOW A BLACK BANANA FACING UPSIDE DOWN. BECK GETS RESTLESS.

BECK:     What are you doing back there?

JOY:      It’s the beginning of Act Two.

BECK:     Aah, yes… repetition.

JOY:      It’s Beckett.

BECK:     I suppose the imp is back. Am I right?

SWIF ENTERS STAGE RIGHT. SHE IS HOLDING A CANE.

JOY:      She’s back.

WILD ENTERS STAGE LEFT.

JOY:      She’s not alone.

BECK PAUSES AND SPEAKS SOBERLY.

BECK:     Give me that line one more time…

JOY:      She is not alone.

BECK:     That’s better. She ‘is’, not ‘she’s not’. When you do Beckett, you do Beckett right, you fecker.

JOY:      I’m following the script to the letter.

BECK GRUMBLES SOMETHING INCOHERENT. MORE SILENCE.

BECK:     How long does this silence go on for?

JOY:      It doesn’t state. It just says ‘More silence’. [TO WILD] How is your French?

WILD:     En attendant. ‘Diablot’! Why do you just stand so?

SWIF:     I am old.

JOY:      You were young before.

WILD:     The sands of time are coarse. [PAUSE] [TO SWIF] Approach. [SWIF BEGINS TO WALK FORWARD] Stop.

BECK:     Describe, Jay-Jay.

JOY:      The loud one - is telling the quiet one - to move. She’s her slave, I think. Do you have a slave?

WILD:     She needs me. As I too am in need.

BECK:     Always two there are.

WILD:     A master and an apprentice. You may address her.

JOY:      Are you symbolic, Swif?

SWIF:     Beckett is never symbolic, miss.

BECK:     [UNDER HIS BREATH] Fecking right there.

MORE SILENCE.

JOY:      What should I ask it now?

BECK:     Ask her where she’s from.

JOY:      Where are you from?

SWIF:     Ireland, miss.

JOY:      To be sure. She’s from (Ireland-)

BECK:     I know where she’s from. I’m still blind, can’t you see?

JOY:      That doesn’t make sense what you just spoke.

BECK:     It’s feckin Beckett!

JOY:      Stop saying ‘feckin’. They don’t say ‘feckin’ in Beckett.

LONG PAUSE.

BECK:     Always we wait. [PAUSE] Ask her the questions tout de suite so we may walk upon that undiscovered country.

JOY:      Why are you here, Swif?

SWIF:     I already told you, miss.

JOY:      You don’t say much, do you?

WILD:     [UNINTERESTED] Tell it to extemporise.

JOY:      Extemporise, Swif.

SWIF:     I can’t, miss.

JOY:      Why can you not?

SWIF:     I have to follow the script, do I not, miss?

WILD:     Narrate, Mutt! Straighten up first. [SWIF STRAIGHTENS] Articulate! Wait!

JOY:      Why ‘wait’?

WILD:     There is always waiting in Beckett… it’s the ubiquitous theme.

BECK:     I waited till 1989…

A SOBERED SILENCE. SWIF HAS BEGUN HUNCHING OVER AGAIN.

WILD:     It will speak…

SWIF:     Respecting… the naked stage… and there’s always a pause, but it’s NEVER symbolic, existentialism within the illogical nature of existence, embrace the REALISM of- extended and rambling monologue-gog-gog-gog-gog, wrote in French-ench-ench-ench-ench, hates critics loves the co-dependants, and all the while his syntax is- act one act two repetition/cyclical repetition, you do Beckett right, you fecker, you follow the script to the- always two there are, born in the Emerald- Paris! France! There is ALWAYS! waiting --- in Beckett.

SWIF COLLAPSES ON A CHAIR.

BECK: To be sure, he’s a great man - Beckett. He exceeds Swift and Wilde. Joyce even.

BECK’S HEAD LULLS BACK.

WILD: Greater than Joyce?! That’s some bollocks.

WILD COLLAPSES ON A CHAIR.

JOY: No, no. Beckett - is never symbolic!

JOY COLLAPSES ON A CHAIR.


END.


(And now the First draft and notes...)

More emphasis on waiting.


Wild: There you are, you villain!

Swif continues to stare at Joy.

Wild: She is old and dysfunctional.

Joy: She was young.

Wild: She is as old as time. Fleeting.

Joy: Time is fleeting.

Wild: It waits like a shadow of a distant soul.

Joy: Waiting for that last breath.

Wild: How right you are. Wild!

Joy: Jay-Jay!

Beck: Jay-Jay! Eternity will crumble before you hear my call. [Pause] Heed me!

Joy begins stacking and unstacking chairs.

Wild: You are a man of vigour.

Beck: Beckett adores vigour.

Wild: And pith.

Beck: Piss. [Pause] Your aide.

Wild: She tests! me.

Beck: Vex me?

Wild: Try not to vex me. She vexed me once.

Joy: What happened?

Wild: She never did it again.

Joy: Why – what did you do?

Wild: I gave her an extended and complicated piece of dialogue.



Joy: I think you’re wrong about ‘quizzically’.

Beck: Critic!

Joy is hurt.

Beck: Let us embrace as co-dependants do.

Joy approaches and they flail at air, Beck with arms raised with Joy behind. Joy pulls Beck’s hat down.

Beck: So it is that winter does suddenly fall on man and beast.

Wild: How profound.

Beck: Beckett is always profound.

Joy: [under her breath] Just bad syntax is all.



Waiting for Beckett’s Endgame

Beck is sat in a chair. He is staring at something/nothing or he has a hat on his head that covers his eyes. He is snoring.

Joy walks in to the room and past Beck.

Joy: Are you asleep?

Beck: Who can tell in this day and age?

Joy stacks the chairs quietly, before unstacking them quietly.

Beck: What are you doing making all that racket?

Joy: It’s a sunny day out so I thought…

Joy goes quiet.

Swif has walked in and is staring at Joy.

Beck: What are you waiting for? Is there a ‘pause’ in the script?

Joy: There is always a pause in the script. They’re everywhere.

Beck: Then why is there silence for an extended period?

Joy: A young girl has just walked in.

Beck: A young girl?

Joy: Yes. Is that symbolic of something do you think – a young girl glides in. Is it symbolic, do you think?

Beck: Beckett is never symbolic.

Joy and Swif stare at each other for a prolonged amount of time.

Beck: Is this pause in the script?

Joy: Yes. We ‘stare at each other for a prolonged amount of time’ it says.

Beck: Ask the creature what is wants, will you?

Joy: What do you want?

Swif: I’m a secondary character added to accentuate the latent quirkiness and abstract surrealism, madam.

Joy stares at Swif quizzically.

Beck: Is this-

Joy: Yes, this pause is in the script. I have to stare at her quizzically, it says.

Beck: Quizzically? That doesn’t sound like Beckett.

Joy: What does that mean?

Beck: Beckett would never use the word ‘quizzically’. He’d say suspiciously.

Joy: How do you know? Beckett wrote in French.

Beck: Because Beckett had a penchant for logorrhoea! [In anger, he swipes at Joy with a cane, but hits only air]

Joy: Don’t shout. I’m not deaf.

Beck: What?!

Joy goes back to stacking and unstacking chairs. Beck gets restless.

Beck: What are you doing back there?

Joy: I’m busying myself.

Beck: What’s the Imp doing?

Joy: She’s. not. doing. anything.

Beck pauses and speaks soberly.

Beck: Give me that line one more time…

Joy: She isn’t doing anything.

Beck: That’s better. She ‘isn’t’, not ‘she’s not’. When you do Beckett, you do Beckett right, you fecker.

Joy: I’m following the script to the letter.

Beck grumbles something incoherent.

More silence.

Beck: How long does this silence go on for?

Joy: It doesn’t state. It just says ‘More silence’. [Pause] I’m pausing before you ask. [Pause] Hey, do you think this pause is symbolic of something?

Beck: Beckett is never symbolic.

Joy: Can you read French?

Beck: What’s that little urchin doing now? Why does it just stand so? Talk to it. Interrogate.

Joy: What shall I ask?

Beck: Ask her about Roland Barthes.

Joy: Who?

Beck: The ‘Death of the Author’ guy. I think I would’ve like him.

Joy: [To Swif] Come closer.

Swif is about to take a step forward.

Joy: Stop. What’s your name?

Swif: Swif, Madam.

Joy: Swif? Swif? S-wif? Funny name. Is it symbolic of something?

Swif: Beckett is never symbolic, madam.

Beck: [Under his breath] Fecking right there.

More silence.

Joy: What should I ask it now?

Beck: Ask her where she’s from.

Joy: Where are you from?

Swif: Ireland, madam.

Joy: To be sure. She’s from-

Beck: I know where she’s from. I’m still blind, can’t you see?

Joy: That doesn’t make sense what you just spoke.

Beck: It’s feckin Beckett!

Joy: Stop saying ‘feckin’. They didn’t say ‘feckin’ in 1989.

Long pause.

Beck: 1989? What’s so significant about 1989?

Joy: It’s the year you…

Beck: Year I ‘what’?

Joy: It’s the year you were waiting for… your endgame- never mind. [To Swif] Why are you here, Swif?

Swif: I already told you why, madam.

Joy: You don’t say much, do you?

Beck: Tell it to extemporise.

Joy: How the feck do you know what ‘extemporise’ is in French?

Beck: Do as I ask!

Joy: Extemporise, Swif.

Swif: I can’t, madam.

Joy: Why can you not?

Swif: I have to follow the script, do I not, madam?

Beck: Tell it to narrate then!

Joy: Narrate please, Swif. Straighten up first. [Swif straightens] Speak, Swif.

Beck: Wait!

Joy: Why ‘wait’?

Pause.

Beck: There is always waiting in Beckett… it’s the ubiquitous theme.

Joy: Speak, Swif.

Swif: [Swif gives a concise run down of Samuel Beckett’s career and style. It is lengthy]

Beck: He’s a great man - Beckett. He exceeds Swift. And Joyce even.

Joy: Greater than Joyce? That’s some bollocks.

Beck & Swif: No. Beckett is never symbolic!

Sunday 22 March 2015

Red Riding Hood

I wore red. Every day was a ‘red’ day. It was my thing, see.
The old lady had called earlier and requested my presence. Maybe she was close to knocking the bucket over, footsie-style. So I acquiesced. “I’ll see you some time in the post-noon, grandma.” I assured her. What I meant was, I’d see her in the late evening.
But the old gal’s a tough piece of meat. She drank Blue Bols for breakfast, White Russians for dinner and red-diesel for supper. She looked like a pickle.
So I headed into the woods. That forest gets dark quick, but the old bird wanted company and I wanted some of that legacy she kept under the floorboards beneath the king-size she lived on twenty-four-seven.
I saw movement outta the corner of my eye. My eyes were sharp, see, like one of those Ginsu knives from the land of the rising sun. Then the action shifted port side. Then back to starboard from aft. This thing was circling me. Looking for a way in. Maybe it wanted to board me. Good luck, I thought. This is one shiksa who knows some moves: stamp, grab and claw. Stamp, grab and claw. Then one karate chop to the medulla oblongata and it’s sayonara for a dirt nap. Down for the full ten count and a hundred more.
And then that rancid meat flavour was in my face and stinging my eyes. I wanted to retch… but I gotta strong stomach. I kept the carrot chowder was staying put.
“Hey baby,” he growled, “looking kinda feisty.”
I didn’t want to tell him about my see-you-later chop so I played along: “You wanta rumble, you came to the right place, bub?”
“Hoo-hoo, I like that.”
This cat was just warming up to play second fiddle before he could move on to the full percussion.
“Why don’t you and me have a little quiet time, what you think?”
“Too noisy for you?” I was silent so I could allow him to absorb the quiet of the place. The birds were playing hush-hush. The mice were as quiet as themselves. The owls couldn’t give a hoot. They were asleep.
He was persistent, “No, I think we should find a place all to our-“
“Listen, buddy,” I said and I could see the smile on his face. He wanted his vindaloo spicy, “I don’t wanna be rude, but I’m off to the old lady’s for a cup of best Indian and dried up cookie… ehh, I don’t want what you’re selling… okay?”
He was pensive. Till the count of three I thought he’d got the hint. “Old lady? You mean, Hubbard?”
“Hubbard? That floozy? Nah, Grandma Hood, outta Poughkeepsie, NY. She’s in the log cabin for the summer.”
He made a noise that sounded like ‘uh-huh, log cabin’ and a second noise that sounded like ‘yum’ before shooting off at tremendous velocity. For a moment, I thought he might be Jamaican with that kinda foot-speed, but I shook it off and quickened to a skip myself.
Wasn’t long before I was outta breath and so slowed to a plodding perambulation. You gotta lay off the smokes for a day or two, Red, I told myself. Those lungs have a best before date, you know?
Eventually, I reached the cottage. “Ah, the old lady decided to make me welcome… the front door’s open. Maybe she’s got the kettle on. I’m in need of refreshment.”
But there was no welcome whistle wetter. If I wanted to wet my whistle, I’d have to get the kettle to whistle before my whistle would be wet. “I’m here, grandma.” I called towards her bedchamber.
Her voice was hoarse, “Come on in, honey.”
The silly old horse doesn’t drink enough, I thought. I’ll make her a cup of tea to wet her-
Five minutes later, and after some uncharacteristic impatience on her behalf I might add, I had a steaming hot kettle and a mess of cookies I’d brought-with from Aleeb’s on the corner. (Grandma’s cookies were older than Methus).
“Took your time, didn’t you, toots?”
Toots? Grandma never called me that before. Maybe dementia was finally settling in.
There was something strange, now that I was sat down next to old granny. She looked strange. “Hey, er, grandma, what big ears you got.”
“Big ears?! What the f- what’s wrong with my ears, you little- erm, oh yeah, you know, when you grow older your ears grow, you know. They’re hairy too and pointy.”
“Right.” That was a strange answer. I just thought she might try to be cute and deflect it like and say, ‘all the better to hear you with, my dear’. I’d say she got outta the wrong side of the bed, but the broad is in there twenty-four- well, I already told you about that earlier in the story.
So I looks at those eyes. Granny has green eyes. Today, for whatever reason, they were brown. And big as a motherfucka. “What big eyes you have, grandma? What’s up with the colour change – you wearing contacts? Getting narcissistic in your old age…” I laughed.
“Watch your mouth there, toots… I ain’t that old. These eyes, well… it’s a new form of cataracts. How d’you like that? Feeling a bit guilty with that smart mouth of yours?”
Yeah, she was touchy today. Thought I might back off a little. “Your nose is looking wet.”
“Hey, you just watch that fucking mouth there or someone might- er, yeah, my nose, I, er got a little bit of the sniffs. Get me a tissue from the ladies, honey.”
So I got her a tissue. Brought her a full roll. And if you want to know, the toilet was a mess. Hadn’t been cleaned since I was last over here the year before.
“Hey, Grandma, what’s with all the hostility? It’s me… you’re little cherub. Red.”
“Yeah, you know, it’s these goddamn piles I got. They’ll make anyone cranky. If it ain’t the relentless throbbin’ it’s the itch, you know. I don’t mean nothing by it, babes.”
“So what’s with the mouth, Grandma, you look like Julia Roberts.”
“Motherfucka! I’m gonna rip your goddamn head off and shit down the hole in your neck!”
The bitch went for me. She leapt forward. And I’m thinking, Disability Living Allowance? This kitty can really move.
So I took a side step and granny’s there on all fours holding her stomach making a groaning sound.
“Jesus, grandma. What you been eating? You look like you’re ready to ‘splode.”
She just continued to make groaning sounds and then she rolled onto her side and gargled for a bit.
“Get me some Alka-Seltzer, honey. Fast. I feel like I’m gonna shit a live moose.”
I was gonna say she looked like she’d eaten a live moose.
It was at that moment that there was a momentary rip, followed by a tremendous popping sound and that was the last I knew.

I woke up a few hours later, still on the floor. Nearby was grandma. She was grey. Well, she would be if she wasn’t covered in blood and mucus and if she wasn’t looking a little bit chewed up. Yeah, she was dead. That poor dead, nutty lady. Underneath her was her favourite wolf-skin rug that was ruined. I don’t know what had happened – don’t ask – but it was covered in the same goopy shit that the old lady was marinated in.
So, I said a little prayer about how glad I was I hadn’t been around for the death and that I wished she’d waited till I was gone before shuffling off the lavender coil, before cranking open the floor boards.
A hundred and fifty-seven gees. I was going to Rio. First Class, baby. And the old lady’s log cabin? Gotta be at least another two hundred ‘k’, in this climate. But that’s not the kind of Benjamins you can swim in for the rest of your natural… I’d still have to do some hustling on the side. But that’s the great thing about being me. I’m Little Red Riding Hood. I’m the star of my very own fairy story, and as such, implicit within every fairy tale trope, is the imperative that the leading lady is… what… what is she? Three guesses?
Nope? You give up?
Well, I’ll tell you. If your protagonist is a girl, she is the most beautiful girl you ever did see and because of that… this girl is gonna get everything she could ever wish for.
So long, mutherfuckas!!!

Hydrogen

I wanted to be surprised. It’s what I’d requested. Whatever. In that respect, I’d brought it all on myself. People were dead. People I had known since our teenage years. I’d seen them before they’d cultivated their first blackhead and zit… and now they were dead. One of them, a woman I’d had sex with on a heady night, had been almost ripped in two.
“Surprise me.” The words I would never again say without being brought back to this time and this location. The vision of these people was scorched deep inside my hippocampus.
“Are you okay, Billy?”
“Huh?” I was in shock, I think. Maybe not shock. I wasn’t feeling cold, or nauseas, but the cogs in my brain were whirring, unable to engage gears. “Okay? Umm…”
“I think he’s in shock.” She said, her little box of tricks in hand. “No wounds visible.”
She came closer and spoke as though speaking to a person of age eighty plus. “I’m just going to sit you down. Okay?”
“Huh?” Her touch was light. I was happy for it.
“I’m going to look you over. Okay?” Still the high pitched, reassuring pacification.
“They exploded.” I heard the words leave me, but was conscious of no brain function that had created them.
“It’s okay. We’re here now to help y- erm… exploded? What was it… that exploded?”
“It was a surprise.” I saw the surprise in my head and I closed my eyes to it. Thankfully the vision was momentarily extirpated… only to reappear seconds later.
“A surprise? It’s okay. You’re okay. What happened exactly?”
“I’d asked… I’d asked… I’d asked… for balloons. They surprised me, you could say that. These things were huge. Bodge, I told him, I said, Bodge, you can’t… you have to empty the balloons. Helium is inert. This is hydrogen. So he walked to the end of the garden and got out his lighter. I had no time to stop him… so I ran.”
“Hydrogen…?” Her face was a visible representation of a question mark. How the fuck did they get hold of hydrogen?
I took a firm hold of her wrists. We locked eyes. I was intent she should understand me. “You have to listen,” I said, “They all hated me. They only came… they only did it cos I won the lottery. I’m glad. Do you hear me? I’m glad of it.”

Saturday 21 March 2015

The Muppet

I deserved it for sure,
But as the bruises grew,
I grew confused.

I was angry.
It wouldn't let you hear my words
That voice in your head
That told you to Kill me
Twice. Once with a wedding gift.

A fist became a foot
And a foot became that knife,
but that wasn't all
Because the blood
Needed a life

And I was scared.
You scared me and that wasn't right.
I shouldn't be scared;

I was Your man.

Not a real man, but a fool of a man.
Not an actual man, but that man far away.


Sunday 15 March 2015

Burning

I pounded hard against the glass.
They couldn’t hear so I pounded more.
I pounded hard until my hand swelled;
My arms began to burn, the lactic burned,
It burned like a torch that fired the fire in my head.

I pounded. I pounded until the noise inside my head
Accompanied the rhythm on the wood
Of the door and I pounded some more.
I could endure no more,
So I pounded more

And more until I fell to the floor and cried
And cried.
And on the inside my family burned.
They burned inside.
They burned
And I died.