The Man Who Loathed Whispers.

March 23, 2009 at 7:07 pm | Posted in poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 13 Comments
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As he got slowly older his hearing started to go. Not surprising since he had spent so much of his life wearing headphones, sometimes to listen more closely to the pins dropping in the lock and others to block out the perpetual cacophony of other people’s lives.

It has reached the stage now that he can’t hear much at all except the moan of his voice in his throat and chest and he wonders when they will feed him again.

He hears the whisper of their approach and  closes his eyes even though it is already pitch black.

Japanese wave tattoo.

July 11, 2008 at 5:46 pm | Posted in antihaiku, writing | 13 Comments
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The Japanese pornographer crossed her long legs and smiled. He won’t go a cent over fifteen thousand she said.

Hector was dead by the time Simon got back to Brisbane carrying the suitcase containing both the film and the fifteen thousand.

She had fingernails he slurred at the Brazilian stripper later that night and each of them had a different animal carefully embroidered.

He woke up in a different city in a room with just a Japanese woodcut of a wave over the bedhead, there was a knock on the door and that was that then, he said, as I reassured him, don’t worry the warden has seen fit to provide a brand new kit given the incidence of sickness, so a Japanese Wave tattoo, as his veins swelled, there must be a story behind that,

’27’ tattoo.

June 7, 2008 at 5:00 pm | Posted in writing | 23 Comments
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Swallowing, ahh never mind, hold out your arm, don’t worry, the warden decided there was just too much HIV and Hep about so they got me a brand new kit. So just a gothic numeral, 27, gotta be a story behind that.

They don’t die straight away. It wasn’t a decision, just a reaction with knife in hand and then I saw how badly it hurt her and I panicked and hit her again. She started screaming so I tried to stop her and that was three across her cheek and four across her collarbone because I missed her throat and five and six went across her knuckles as she raised her hands. She fell and I could see how much pain she was in and I remembered how much I had loved her and how beautiful she was that day when she said ‘yes, I suppose so’, and seven eight and nine were a kind of compassion, remembering my gratitude and seeing her pain and wanting it to stop ten eleven and the screaming became a kind of low groan and for some reason I thought her heart her heart must be stopped, that is the source of the pain and twelve thirteen fourteen were that but the heart is protected by a shield of ribs. She had turned on her side and was making the most horrible sounds of gurgling and sobbing and I was so frustrated and angry at not reaching her heart that fifteen sixteen seventeen and she stopped making any noises but was breathing still in sudden violent gasps, some part of her hanging on to life for reasons I can’t explain and I thought about the boys being left with no mother and dad in jail forever and that made me angry again and reminded me of what she had done with him, the things they had shared, making fun of me behind my back I’m sure of it and now she was curled up in a ball and she had stopped doing anything except bleeding and suddenly I saw her again on the beach that day the first time sitting shyly in a summer dress while her friends lay around and posed in bikinis giggling at boys and I started crying myself and cut her throat which was twenty seven.

(you can read ‘Teardrop Tattoo’ here)

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