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Aiko oller Jul 2013
I've ****** up,
friends of mine
no longer close.

I've ****** up,
Got through high school
uptight
drunk off my ego
of a man who
thought he was better
that all the rest.

I've ****** up,
old love potentials
no longer close
to me, but
instead thrown away,
never to feel their lust again.

I've ****** up,
help me find
a way out
of this *******
I've dug myself into.
The phone rang and as usual I answered with that touch of vocal swagger I'm so greatly
known for.
the voice on the other end was timid and who could blame her it's not often
A writer gets to speak with a semi legend in the making well kind of look I can ******* dream okay.

Is this Gonzo?
The voice asked unsure in a world of pitfalls and scammers she had stumbled upon  the
true voice behind the madness it was like Christmas minus the annoying little ******* and terrible music.

Why yes yes it is.
Hey this is Lily Mae  it's really awesome to finally talk to you.
I understood her happiness it must have been what it was like to first realize
your idols were real  Lily was thrilled with excitement she rattled on a star struck
fan in the glow of the great one.

I'm so used to this by now as you can imagine being as awesome as I.
We spoke for hours on some of my favorite subjects like myself.
Duh what else is there to talk about well besides ******* and what a ******* this site has become.

You know you really are a mystery to most and it really works for you.
Well honestly that's mainly because of the whole outstanding warrants thing I said.
To which she laughed.
Although I don't know why being I was serious.

We chatted for hours on every subject under the sun.
she told me all about her interests like miniature golfing and arguing with  airhead teens
at writers café.

And A bunch of other things I cant recall cause I was far to busy hearing about how awesome I was .
Well you can't argue with the truth folks I know they  don't call me captain kickass for nothing.

So I bet you get a lot of girls writing you huh?
Duh of course I mean it gets so bad cause I mean I hate having to turn them down cause I'm like
yeah I know all you poetic chic's want to get with me but like I got to rest my ding ding sometime.

You wouldn't believe how bad it is I mean there's a lot of really weird people out there on the internet.
Yeah and I think I'm talking to the weirdest.

Seems this hamster was getting a bit jealous I couldn't blame her.
But I was like a wild turkey I  had to run cause I couldn't fly and that and I'm afraid of heights.
But I'm usually cool with getting high not that you should ever do drugs.
Cause look what doing to many drugs can do to your brain.

Hell the effects are clear just look at the people that run this place.

Umm Gonzo I got to go.
Seems being in the presence of greatness  had all the normal side effects
but honestly enough about peoples personal problems.

Hey don't take this the wrong way or anything.
I knew what she was going to say next oh silly fans like I told my last one
of course you can send me **** pics just not if your a dude.
Duh who wants to look at some dudes hairy sack it was just a faze I was going through okay!

Besides I had to have proof Justin Bieber was really a guy .
I'm kidding like he has hair on his *****.
Not that I would know but I mean he is Canadian it's just there culture okay.

Of course Lily just remember I have high standards I'm kidding I'm a total ****.
What she said confused seems she was experiencing a contact high yes I'm just that good.
What the hell are you talking about?

Look I know how it is to be in the presence of Gonzo
trust me even I cant keep my hands off myself.
Big shocker there Gonz  but hey switch it up sometimes and call it a double date.

Lily Mae not only is she a poet She's a pretty good smartarse as  well.

Gonz what I was going to say was .
Is that don't be hurt but your kind of  weird so don't try calling back cause I'm going to block your number.

I heard what she was saying and like most men I didn't let reality get in the way of my own ego fed
*******.

Sure she was saying I was weird and after talking to me she really wanted to take a shower .
But what she was really saying was.
She knew I was a loner a outlaw  and a true freebird minus the really long *** song
and drunken redneck fans with lighters held up.

She knew she couldn't tame the king of crazy so she would simply admire from afar like all the rest
hopefully without  a restraining  order or pepper spray that *******
**** burns much like the clap.
Not that I would know.


Umm Gonz are you there?

Yes little hamster I am and I fully understand be free my friend and stay crazy.
Uhh yeah you to and well I got to go your really creeping me out.
Adios Lily.

And just like that she was gone but I believe she took a great deal from the conversation
like don't talk to people from the internet and sometimes people who play crazy
truly are ******* crazy.

So remember if your ever alone and feel like just talking to someone.
You probably want to avoid me cause it's really not a act.
And I'll probably scare the ***** outta  you or make you take a bath  and if so I'm
just saying that web cam is got to get some use sometime.

Stay crazy hamsters  

Gonzo
based on a true event only the names and just how awesome it is to talk to Gonzo have been slightly changed to protect the innocent.

And remember your not ***** till I've put you in a Gonzo write.
Qualyxian Quest Jan 2021
it's truly a ******* country
in a ******* ******* world

the Trumpfucks raid the Capitol
Trumpfuck flag unfurled

Kamakura Buddha
silent in the snow

just a few years
then forever gone we go

     Ay yay yo!
Redshift Nov 2013
how much poetry is in a person?
and how much of it comes out?
enough to bring up the pimples in your personality?
the ugly bumps you can learn to hide
but can't stop people from feeling
when they touch you

how much poetry is in a person
and how much needs to come out
before i am better
how much before i get over this *******
that's calling my name

how much poetry is in a person
and how do i get rid of it
i either speak cynically
or with the malice
and blood
that seeps out of me

how much poetry is in a person
and is it ok to have it there
and when will these pimples go away
and when will i be
alright again

does the poetry have to be gone
for me to be ok?
spysgrandson Jun 2013
the old stone walls are still standing
though they no longer echo with sounds
of cornball jokes, bottle caps poppin’ off cokes
and the happy humming of a repaired motor
  
the old man was there when
the first car pulled in for gas  
28 cents a gallon, all fluids checked for free
spotless windshield guaranteed  
he hired that Mexican boy because he was polite
yes sir, and was the best **** 20 year old
grease monkey in the county
(hell, the state)
boy had one leg shorter than the other  
and had him a twin brother
whose two fine legs carried him that place,
somewhere between honor and complete disgrace,
called Vee-et-nam
but those strong legs couldn’t bring him home  
he come back in a box,
both his good legs blown clear off  

he hired Lolo the day before
his brother come home      
was hot as Hades at that graveside  
but he went and stood by the boy,
his sobbing mama, his sober father
and the hot hole in the caliche
where his brother was gonna spend
forever    

business was good  
the boy spent most of his time
under the hood
of Riley’s ‘51 Ford
or Miss Sampson’s Impala,
(white 1962, with red interior, clean as the day she bought it)  
Nixon beat that old boy from Minnesota  
told everybody he would end that crazy Asian war  
the right way  
but the old man had been
in those foul trenches in France,
killin’ krauts when he was 18  
and he knew there was
no “right” way  

he and the boy had many a good day
with the register cling-clanging,
mechanical mysteries being solved  
and a good hot lunch now and then
when the boy’s mama brought  
fresh tortillas and asada
or the old man would spring
for chicken fried steak sandwiches from the café

yes, many a good day

until
that hot July afternoon  
the day after we landed on the moon
when “they” came  
not from some lunar rock  
but from an El Paso *******  
where graffiti were their psalms
and switchblade knives their toys  
“they” came,
parked their idling ‘57 Chevy in front of the bay,
and bust through the front door
with a gun and a ball bat  
both had hair slicked back
with what looked like 30 weight oil,
“they” smiled, and smelled
of beer and sweat  
“Dame el dinero! Give us the money!
Give us the money old man, cabron!”  
the old man glared at them  
the bat came down and grazed his head,
cracked his shoulder  
“they” did not see the boy with the wrench
who laid the bad *** batter out
with one righteous swing  
the one with the gun did not aim
but pulled the trigger three times  
and two of those hot speeding streams
sliced through the boy’s throat  
the shooter was through the door and burning rubber
while the boy lay bleeding red blood
on the green linoleum floor  
the old man knelt over him, helpless  
saw his eyes close a final time
while the sting of the burned rubber
was still in his nose, and the hellish screech
of the tires still in his ears  

the old man had seen the dead before
piled in heaps in the dung and mud
of those trenches, faces bloated
with their last gasps from the nightmare gas  
but he hadn’t shed a tear
in the pale pall of the dead  
until that hot July day, with a man on the moon, all those miles away
and the best boy with a wrench in the whole state, Lolo,  
silent on the floor in front of him  

they caught the shooter
(sent him to Huntsville for a permanent vacation)
the one Lolo laid out with a wrench died
on the way to Thomason Hospital in El Paso
the ambulance driver was Lolo’s cousin  
and he may have been driving a bit slow    

Lolo was buried the day they came back from the moon
right beside his brother in that ancient caliche
his mother sobbed softly, “mi hjos, mi hijos”  
both boys now cut down
her left with prayers
and memories…  
the boys at the ballpark
their first communions
the grandchildren she would not have  
and the gray graves where they
would return to dust  

the Saturday after, the old man turned 69  
when he flipped his open sign to closed that day, he  
climbed the ladder slowly, painted over his store bought sign
with new white wash,
and red lettered it with “Lolo’s”  
not a person asked
about him using the dead boy’s name  
and things would never be the same    

the old man lasted another nine years  
until the convenience store started sellin’ gas
(they wouldn’t even pump)  
his hands were stiff with arthritis
and his shoulder stilled ached from the crack of the bat  
he closed on a windy winter Friday  
yet painted the sign
a final time that very day  
nearly falling, as he made the last red “S”  
but he made it down the ladder that last time  
and saw the boy’s name in his rear view
as he drove into the winter dusk
Inspired by a picture of  a long abandoned filling station in a small west Texas town--please note, though the name of the station is real, the characters and events are completely fictional creations of the author
Hinata Sep 2014
I didn't ask for this,
I yelled at my minds growing abyss.
My sister was weeping,
My nephew was sleeping.
My mother had anger set out towards me,
My father had anger for all those three.
He used me,
I was an excuse for this blasphemy.
Now my sister and nephew are homeless and seeking refuge at her mother in laws home,
Guilt weighed heavier on my heart than a mountain of stones.
And for what?
So my dad can get her out of my home and give me a room that wasn't even worth it!
Now I'm here, standing in the middle alone,
A **** to everyone!
I didn't ask for this!
This is a big steaming pile of *******!
They think that it's my fault!
I didn't do anything at all!
My dog got run over by my dad,
That ******* took everything that I had!
How am I supposed to know what to say or do?!
My mom didn't tell me anything or what to do!!
She hates me now because I "caused" this,
That selfish *****!
How am I supposed to know what to say?!
She always taught to listen and never go against what my father says!!
She's the one who told me to listen and talk to this *******,
To deal with his ***** fits and complaints about this *******.
I let everyone walk all over me,
Yet the bad guy is always me!!
What the **** am I supposed to ******* do?!
Why am I taking the blame for everything he does?!
Why am I taking the blame for my mom?!
Why am I taking the blame for everything bad that happens here?!
Why am I crying these stupid tears?!
I didn't do anything,
I didn't say anything.
I never wanted this to happen,
So why am I the villain?
A whole bunch of **** happened and now I'm the bad guy, my mom hates me, my sister hates me and I'm just losing my mind here, I just wish that everything would just leave me alone.... Well tell me what you think, sorry for cussing, I'm just so tired of it all
Edna Sweetlove Jan 2015
The death-filled battlefield lay foul and grey,
Its noisome stillness broken grimly by the groans
Of wounded, broken, bleeding, dying men.
But, cheer up folks, there's some good news:
Gently, slowly, through that desolate scene
Came an Angel all dresséd in nurses' kit;
She wandered, lovely as a cloud, starched in white,
Giving eager head unto the maimed and crippled.
"Me, me" a legless soldier wanly called,
More in hope than in serious expectation
Of a caring gobble before he croaked.
And then he passed on to the great ******* in the sky,
Another useless sacrifice to nothing what-so-*******-ever.
alexa Feb 2018
jaiden ( jack in my other poem ) ~ you joked about suicide/ depression/ mental illnesses. little did you know i suffer from all of them.

my ***** donor ( dad ) ~ you were to blind to see that you were doing the wrong thing and hurting people while doing so. you're currently in jail,, *******.

my aunt ~ your head is shoved to far up your own *** to understand that not everyone likes you and wants to hear what you have to say.

a few old friends ( eva ) ~ we just distanced ourselves from eachother,, nothing more nothing less.

( janell ) ~ you're the average popular girl that you'd see in movies. i dont surround myself with ***** who talk behind their friends backs. i cut you out of my life.

before i publish this for the world to see lemme say that 2017 was one of the best but worst years of my life.

on the good side,, i finally got the name "doormat" off of my forehead. shared so many laughs and made friends that i hope i keep forever.

on the bad side,, my depression and anxiety. my depression in itself was at the point where i honest to god didn't think i would make it. my anxiety was and still is so bad where im scared to leave home and actually communicate with people out of my friend group.

all in all,, 2017 was one of the biggest pain in the ***** yet. lets make the future better than the present.
I stopped somewhere along the way .
It was a blank place with even more blank faces .
They seemed just as detached as myself.

There is a true beauty of being alone .
I haven't seen a familiar face in weeks .
But then again I haven't had the headache of having to pretend
I care either .

I thought about when I left.
There was comfort in the routine.
Knowing the misery would great me every day .
Knowing the name of every ******* ******* who drove me nuts enough to leave in the first place.

As I waited to pay for gas the ***** behind the counter looked at me as though I was some sort of oddity .
Two six packs in hand I asked for a pack of Marlboro reds as well.
He looked at the clock .

Kind of early to be hitting sauce huh pal.
He asked me as he put the pack of cigarettes on the counter and rang the rest of my crap up.

His name tag read Mark.
I was just passing through but at least I had met one of the Kentucky chapter of ******* .

Well never to early to start a bad habit my friend I said as I paid the gas station Gestapo  a fifty.

He held it to the light .
Just pressed it today bud I said.
Somebody has been passing fake bills around the area he replied .
Well when I run into somebody I will let him know your on the job .

You aren't from around here huh mister ?

He placed my change on the counter .
I didn't say **** I just walked out with my change and two semi warm six packs in hand .

I herd him say you have a nice day as I was heading out the door.

It was funny how people viewed others as if there life were some great ******* contest.
They thought there life's were good as long as there was someone else
to look down on.

Yeah I may be a **** up but least I'm not like that drunken loser they would say.
I cracked a beer aimed the car for interstate and was headed anywhere but here .

Yes I lived in a ******* but least my ******* had cold beer .
fray narte Jul 2019
We were always so good at pretending, weren’t we? We would always climb rooftops and pretend that we were stargazers, christening constellations with our favorite songs. Look, there was Somebody Else. There was Nobody’s Home. There was Chasing Cars.

We would pretend we were souls from the 50s, reincarnated into another life — into another happy ending. We would pretend we were art critics, as if we knew **** about Klimt; as if we could tell apart baroque from classical. We would tell each other our weirdest dreams and analyze them, as if we were Freud or something, that misogynistic pig. Oh, you dreamt about us drowning together in the Black Lake? Oh, that means we were gonna have *** tonight, in the absence of the moon. We would pretend that we’ve circled the whole world and that Italy’s got the ******* blandest pizza. We would pretend that we were rock stars, surfing on the crowd.

We would pretend that we’d read the classics. Was that Harry or Henry in The Picture of Dorian Gray? Yeah, Hamlet was pretty cool, but who was Ophelia? ******* pseudo-intellectuals, we were. Nonetheless, I loved pretending with you. We loved pretending that the whole world wasn’t crashing down — that we weren’t stuck in this ******* of a small town, and that the world spun for us. We loved pretending that everything would be okay — that we could leave someday without looking back. We loved pretending that our lives weren’t all over the place. We loved pretending that we were the brave ones, that we could **** ourselves by 40 because the world wouldn’t be kind when we’re all old and saggy.

We loved pretending that we were too cool for mental breakdowns and for any kind of feeling. Honey, we loved pretending that we were psychopaths, too voided for love and all that other crap — that we hated clichés, while doing the most romanticized clichés anyway. We loved pretending that this was where the chapter would end, and that we were together in our make-believe ending. We loved pretending that we were the ones who stayed and made it.

Now, sometimes, I would pretend that we did. Other times, it would be me pretending I was all there ever was — that you never were here to pretend with me, and that I was okay. I would pretend that the rooftop wasn’t too high, and that I didn’t need your help to climb — that the company of city lights and the empty space were enough, honey they never were. Honey, I would pretend too that I never missed you. But I did.

I always did. More than that I would ever admit.

I would look at the stars, the ones we named but I guess they all had already fallen to the earth. You said that when you died, you would live in the shooting stars so that you could crash to the earth and come back to me. But it had been more than a decade since the angels took you away and I no longer stargazed, except tonight. And maybe, just maybe, when I would catch a glimpse of a falling star, I still wouldn’t wish that you didn’t chase your meds with *****. I wouldn’t wish that we didn’t find bubbles coming out of your mouth, like they were a part of your soul. I wouldn’t wish that I didn’t see you die. I wouldn’t wish that you were okay; we both knew we wouldn’t have clicked if one of us was happy or okay.

Heaven, hell, we didn’t believe in those. But when a star would fall unto my chest, I would wish that wherever you were right now or wherever you would be in the next life, darling, you would no longer feel the need to pretend.

And with no lies, no masks, no pretenses, I loved you. Here. And in the next. And in the lives after that, until we lived in one where we would both have the courage to abandon all pretense and just sit on a different rooftop, sharing silence — sharing honest thoughts — sharing the luster of distant stars. And tomorrow, our demons wouldn’t rise with the sun. And we would be okay.
Bob B Jan 2018
Certain Republican members of Congress
And White House staff have of late
Had a lot of difficulty
Keeping their made-up stories straight.

Senators Graham and Durbin reacted
When Trump referred to "*******" nations
And thus disparaged Salvadorians,
People in African countries and Haitians.

But Senators Perdue and Cotton
At first said they weren't aware
Whether the president said the word
And tried not to get caught in the snare.

A couple days later they said, NO,
He didn't say "*******" at all.
How convenient: this sudden change
Of mind from nothing to sudden recall.

After that they changed their stories.
It wasn't "*******" but instead
The word was "*******." Yes, that was
What President Trump had said.

At first Trump didn't deny it,
But later said his language was "tough."
(But we've heard what comes out of his mouth
Whenever he speaks off the cuff.)

What difference does it make?
The word isn't the main point here.
Attitude, racist feelings,
And lack of respect are very clear.

Once they lie, they have to keep lying--
They have to keep plugging away.
As their stories change, the liars
Look more foolish every day.

-by Bob B (1-17-18)
Justin S Wampler Aug 2015
Broken lips, I smile inwardly,
watching you amongst the books.
Wanting you.

Internally, I ridicule my fascination for you,
I mock my lust.
I see the other men just like me.
I see them everywhere, all wanting you.
I hate relating to them.
I hate wanting you.

You posses a designer desire,
like ******* you is all the rage.

Everyday we all see your face
in every newsstand, on every front page,
but only because we all look.
Only because we all want.

And it's me crawling in the dirt like a worm,
it's me licking the doorknobs of every bar in town,
shoving fistfuls of knotted hair down my own throat
from every shower drain in every filthy run down
apartment complex covering this ******* city.

And it's me still wanting you,
sick with the want,
driven mad with the want,
dying wanting.

Poor from the late fees
for books I just can't
bring myself to return.
Jacob Singer Sep 2010
And here in this windless hole, I sit and wonder where I had left that which mattered most to me under the starlit fields of Montreal. I crave it and yet wish to God that I had never been the man who held you close to me. Everything I had in my arms in the parking lot outside of that hotel dash turned dash residence. A messy room and a crowded cafeteria. A hotel dash turned dash residence dash turning dash memory. And here in this wonderless *******, in this airtight cabin of past fantasy’s design, the rent keeps piling up and oh the dishes are due. Half-finished paperback classics flapjacked on top of each other in this white shirt no sweat world with the sleeves rolled up. This pill form city with all the charm and magic of an after dinner mint. Take a walk with me, let me tell you about this dream I had.
It had wine
and white sheets and tables.
Paintings that I knew
but did not recognise,
gasping under the grip
of yellowing wallpaper with pink flowers.
It was hell,
hell I tell you.
waking up with fever thinking I was portuguese and that there were three of me
Remembering when you sat me down,
and told me who I was in all of
two paragraphs- underline this underline that.
Black and red LEDs in full contrast of the room turning real again.
All I remember is you.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2016
for mine own Yocum*

<>




a strange parting shot,
that we are are the refuse
upon this island Earth,
the very last item on some being's
weekly grocery list,
a list composed 'illions of years ago,
of things that could be worthy of
"creating"

this thought sticks to my soul,
like a rosé pink colored
NYC street'd, well chewed,
gum piece
adheres to my sole

the musical companion to this ecrivez,
a sinfonia for strings politely begs to differ,
while a hard covered book
dances me over to Texas,
Dudamel conducts Barber,
all making the question of
man as an afterthought
in a divine master plan for a planet,
seems almost recklessly absurdly nonsensical


then

my cell buzzes me back to this

******* hell earth

seven more cops shot, three dead

down in the bayou of Baton Rouge,
on a sabbath Sunday morning

rouge red now assumes,
takes on a different
notation colorations,
to my bleeding eyes,
delivering importations
of  headaches confusion rampage,
red rage

the amplification of the worst of we,
afterthought creatures surely,
why "create a destroyer,"
an absurd contradictory term,
so we are gift wrapped  
beneath the misleading approbation -
human

there is no nobility in our savagery,
or dare I sneer and say,
in our humanity

you cannot seal a wound with music

you cannot revive the dead with a poem ear-whispered

sitting beneath the tree shade
of my privileged place,
my surrounding world is
bay blue and grass green,
my vision myopic,
I am a self-centered,
microscopic collection of red cells

conceding to you Sargeant,
this designer of the human form,
who wrought it from
soiled earth and excess rib bone,
had a peculiar sense of humor,
a comedian full of
malice aforethought,

for are we not
the final joke,
for someone's bemusement

we must have come last,
because you always
want to leave them
laughing
Mistaken Beliefs
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1706235/mistaken-beliefs/

Within the unfolding creation of this Earth,
with its majestic mountains and valleys,
its rocks and trees, its life-giving streams and seas,
Surely man was but a minor afterthought
no more important than birds, or snakes.
Only we see ourselves as exalted above all other
living things. Our opinion is highly overrated
and wholly underserved.
Molly Smithson May 2014
Fake concrete crosses and the worn black skeletons of barns hover above secondary looped highways. We weave and bob over the Mountain.

Old dirt roads share the same name as the mailboxes that still line them. The Walker Homestead: now a pile of trucks stacked on top of a doublewide toppled next to a house once built in classic southern architecture.

Stripped naked pines are whipped by cold mists.

I awoke during the credits. I lay with tongues. I fall to sleep in verses.

For $30, you can heal in an hour at Hot Springs.

“The Dali Lama has soaked in our tubs!” The woman told me on the phone. “Seven years ago, that is.”

“He’s not still in there, is he?”

The Lama’s not betting on Hot Springs North Carolina for total consciousness. Or maybe he is.

Maybe any *******, even Madison County, can bring you enlightenment when you’re basically a God on earth.

Google: Does the Dali Lama have a car like the Pope-Mobile when he travels? Is he carried on one of those Cleopatra looking things? Sedan chairs.

Ross plays a CD he listened to when he drove the flat empty asphalt of Montana and Colorado.

He was searching for stunning landscapes to shred. A kind of enlightenment I don’t think the Dali Lama could do.

Google: Has the Dali Lama ever snowboarded? Read the whole Dali Lama Wikipedia page.

It’s only the Killers though. We both sing the chorus, staring straight ahead.

I got soul but I’m not a soldier.

Ross says he never liked that song. It’s something I never knew.

Hot Springs has been one of Western North Carolina’s premiere locations for rest and relaxation since 1778.

Except in 1916, when it was an internment camp for German civilian prisoners who were on a cruise ship captured on the coast.

They were all very friendly and really bonded with the townspeople. Some of the Germans even returned with their families and are buried in Hot Springs.

Some prisoners are buried in the town graveyard.

The building to our left was the most lavish resort in the Mountains. It had sixteen marble lined pools filled with healing mineral waters that were surrounded by groomed lawns. The summering crowd played croquet.

It burned down in 1920.

We don’t get offered a lawn game when we arrive. Just visitor towels for $1 and an ashtray.

Cold mists whip among the mineral pools.

I awoke during the credits. I lay with tongues. I fall to sleep in verses.

Ross and I consider having *** in the hot springs. We try once or twice, but parts don’t fit they way they do usually.

I see tiny flecks in the water.

Are they essence of the healing mineral springs or elements of the soakers’ fat bodies before me?

Ross lights a cigar. It smells like burning hair. I light a cigarette in retaliation.

The chubby spa attendant knocks on the door.

“Your time is up,” he drawls.  

What does that mean?

Are we going to be executed and laid next to the German civilian prisoners?

≈Did the Dali Lama receive such treatment?

The water drains, screeching as it is pulled away.

They don’t tell you where it ends up.

The mineral pools swirl with tiny flecks .

I awoke during the credits. I lay with tongues. I fall to sleep in verses.
**** the weather !
It always seemed when you planned ****.
Things always turned to ****.

I had been fed the **** up far to long.
No I was more like hand me a gun and get the **** out of my way.
the ride had been the boiling point  the conversations were as mundane as the Oklahoma  
landscape.

It's sad when you see a tree and you want to get out the car and kiss the ground.
I had to distance myself and the nearest bar called me like a ship to shore .
And maybe after a few stiff drinks I could somehow convince myself the trip was worth the burden of putting up  with half the ******  I listened to out here.

The show was going to be hell dealing with some lame *** ******* with there family friendly *******.
Hopefully my set would be over fast.

Get up there talk to the deadlights crowd and get the hell off that stage before my drink needed refilling.

Hey so what's your deal?
The strange looking guy had asked me on the way up.
Just prefer silence to a ******* chatter I guess.

Whatever man.

He didn't seem to enjoy my reply and his leaving me alone for the rest of the trip was a pleasant reward  indeed.
Little early don't you think?

Another had asked as I broke out my flask and mixed the first of my drinks I like to think as
******* tolerance serum.
Well honestly being it's already ten in the morning I'm actually running late.

**** he's going to be wasted by the time we get there how ******* unprofessional.
I had met far to many of these self righteous ****** on many trips across the states and they all were the same.
To busy watching other's to even realize they had no place being in the company
of actual men  they were more like a annoying ex who nagged the **** out of you till you either said  shut the **** up *****!

Or just walked away silent as she rattled on a mental tornado in a self absorbed existence.

I rarely gave people like this my time let alone my thoughts.
For empty minded ******* could look to other halfwits to fill there heads.
me I had a hard enough time believing my own ******* to care about anyone else's.

It was a hour till my set   and as I knocked back a  luke warm beer in a first class *******
I had to think man I really should have chosen a less interesting career path.

But hell there were like almost ten people in dire need of some saving from the clutches
of candy *** humor and Lord help them if a improve group was around.

I staggered from my stool towards the door as the barkeep said.
Hey buddy need me to call you a cab to get home.
Home hell amigo I'm getting ready to clock in to work.

Maybe I could have chosen a more easy path.
But the drinks seem awful watered down driving a school bus.

Besides who would save the bored few from the family friendly
joke tellers of this world.

Till next time.

Stay crazy.
r Feb 2019
I have this
theory about
irony, tyranny
and irrational
national emergencies
you see, when
the foul wind
blowing south out
of Washington DC
fails the smell test
but compares well
with, say, *******
cat ****, radioactive
batshit contaminants
but, hey, try any
old way, you still can’t
iron any wrinkles out
of the fact that what
lies in the murky bottom
of the Potomac
our leader drinks in
also flow through
the faucets to sink, then
down the *******
of our so-called democracy
and into the lagoon
down on the links
of Mara-a-Lago.
Buk
I dreamt he sent
a care package
A shabby box
filled with
wall sconces
from his
******* apartment
half filled tablets
thoughts and doodles
with a note
to not abuse
substances
and a really nice
vinyl pressing of
some nineties
spoken word piece
with one or
another unknown
ska
alt rock
grunge
band
That sure was nice
of him
I must have
sent some good
psychic *****
Spirits
they call it
Ders Jul 2018
Where the artists breathe paint the blue pig too fat to stop them
Blue lives can **** my blue **** swinging money *****
They want to **** my **** and somehow profit from it
Blue killing color from the jails and school halls
We gotta stop dad **** the patriarchy
Spreading ******* miracle whip from the white supreme party
Ignorance it blocks me taunts me my privilege shows
Standing up for the fight of love we fight for our humanity
Fight for every minority because it’s a dog ******* in America’s White House these days
They’re sending out prayers and our media sends praise
Tired of the gunnings and the hangings
Tired of the negative nancies dancing on graves of ancestors shooting up death with no awareness of how they **** others too
Boo hoo
******* and your trump too.
Bruce Adams Sep 2023
A text for five voices.

Note on text: For formatting reasons, this should be read on a full screen, or in landscape mode on a mobile.

i. Blank copy

I look out of the window at
the houses as they pass and they
don’t so much slide past
                                    or glide past
                                                the motion isn’t smooth.
They sort of click past.
They tick past, dit-dit-dit:
House after house after house after house
                                                dit-dit-dit­-dit-dit
My eyes don’t quite refresh the image fast enough
to keep up with all the houses
                                  as they pass.
It’s 10 o’clock when I arrive at my office
and no-one is there yet
and I turn on my computer.
I sort of just
                sit there
                for quite a long time. Then
at 10.37 I print a document I’ve been working on
and I pick up my mug and I go to the kitchen where the printer is
and I put the kettle on.
I log on to the printer but instead of pressing
                                                Print
  ­                                              I press
                                                        Cop­y
                                                        instead­.
The machine whirs
The light goes
                        across
And out comes this copy this
        Copy of
                nothing.
I pick it up from the cradle.
It’s warm.
And I hold it and I look at it and I think:
                                                This is a copy
                                                                ­of nothing.
And since it is no longer an empty piece of paper but now
                                                             ­   something more
                                                            ­    something
                                                   ­                                imbued
I don’t put it back in the paper tray
and I don’t put it in the bin.
I carry it carefully with my tea back
to my office and put it
                                Carefully
                    ­                            on my desk.
I close the door.
Usually when I arrive and no-one is there I keep the door open for a bit.
It’s my way of letting people know I’m here.
It also helps me get a sense of what’s going on in the building
which students are there and what they’re doing
and once I’ve got a decent enough idea
or if there’s someone around I don’t really feel like helping
                                                         ­                           I close the door.
Today it is quiet.
It is a Friday.
                     Fridays are quiet.
It is the seventh of March.
It is 2014.
              I’m looking out of the window as I recall
              without much interest
              that yesterday was my father’s sixty-first birthday.
The buses tick past the window.
Without really thinking I
roll down the blind
                            Until the window is as blank as my copy of
                                                              ­                                           nothing.
I look at it but I
don’t
              sit
                     down
                                   yet.
My computer makes a noise and a purple box
tells me I have a meeting in thirty minutes.
                                                        ­Oh shut up I tell it
                                                        out loud.
Now I realise that I never did print my document
so I go back to the printer and the file is still there waiting for me
and I press Print All
                     and out it comes
and the piece of paper looks
Obnoxious
                     scrawled over in heavy black print
                     and ****** coloured columns
                                                                ­      and smelling
                                                        ­              Smelling of toner.
For someone who claims to be conscious of the environment I
print excessively. But only at work.
It’s the combination of it being free
                                          (or at least, no cost to me)
and that feeling you get when you
swipe
your access card to log in to the printer
and tap the screen dit-dit-dit to choose this or that.
It feels
       to me
              like being a grown-up.
It’s intoxicating.
I don’t want to go to the meeting
and I’m suddenly annoyed by this ***** piece of paper
which
       I ***** up
                     and throw in the bin.
**** it.
Not even in the recycling.
**** it.
Who cares.
              What difference could it possibly make
              whether I throw this piece of paper
                                                 which I will now have to print again
              in the black part of the bin for waste
              or the green part of the bin for recycling.
I go back to my computer and press Print but
this time
I keep clicking my mouse
                                   ditditditditditditditditditditditditdit
                         ­          Yeah.
                                   ditditditditditditditditditditditditdit
                         ­          ditditditditditditditditditditditditdit
And I go back to the printer and the name of the document comes up on the built-in screen
dozens and dozens of times
the same name of the same document
and I tap
              Print All.
And as the machine spits out clone after clone I
mutter under my breath:
                                   **** it.
                                   Yeah.
Then out loud:
                                   **** it.
                                   Yeah.
And as I throw them in the bin and go back for more I think
I’m going to buy a car. Yeah.
And I’m going to drive my car to work and
when I finish work I’m going to drive it
to a big supermarket
                            a hypermarket
                            a super hyper mega market
where I will buy and buy and buy,
and on my way home I will buy petrol to put in my car
       And I will go on holiday
       I will book all those last minute deals on the internet
       And go to Turkey or Lanzarote or Corfu for a hundred
                                                         ­      or a couple of hundred
                                                         ­      pounds, every month maybe
And I’ll fly there on a big plane.
I’ll soar over the ocean on a big plane.
And when I come back
I’ll soar over all those people outside Stansted Airport
All those
people
With banners
Moaning and complaining and protesting
Banners saying things like
                                   I don’t know
                                                 “Down with planes”
And as the flight attendant smiles goodbye I’ll think
yeah.
       Down with planes.
                                   And I’ll drive my car home and I will
                                   stop
                                   worrying
                                   about
                                   everything.
I go back to my office.
I retrieve one copy of my document from the bin and I
put it on top of my copy of nothing.
Whereas before the document offended me
                            now I have difficulty
                            telling the difference between the two.
My colleague arrives and she tells me about the motorway.
She’s always telling me about the motorway.
I think about my car I’m going to buy and I
think about being on the motorway.
I think about being on that part of the M25
where the planes are so low you duck as they thunder over you
and they come
                     in rapid succession
                                          dit dit dit
                                                        rapid­ eye movement
                                                        ­radar.
I think about being stuck in traffic there and the air
thick with exhaust fumes
mixing with the air around Heathrow
and all those tons of jet fuel from the planes zooming over
Blink and you miss them
                                   but always another follows.
I go to my meeting.
I realise that I have picked up my blank copy
along with the document I printed for the meeting.
Someone says they wish I’d printed more than one copy
as it turns out it would be useful for everyone to have one
and I laugh in their face without explaining myself.
                                                         ­             I make notes on it.
                                                             ­         My copy of nothing.
                                                        ­              Without really realising
                                                       ­               I’ve scribbled notes on it
but as I look at my spidery black biro handwriting
and think with some real despair about how I have mindlessly
destroyed
something pure
the notes
              disappear
                                int­o the paper
and it is clean again.



ii. Ringing sea

My eyes don’t quite refresh the image fast enough.
What I’m looking at
my rational brain tells me
is a video of two people having ***.
I have seen that before.
But what I’m actually watching is a video of
my husband
                     having ***
                                          with another woman.
And my eyes don’t refresh the image fast enough
So I keep seeing his face.
The whole picture melts away and
I just see his face
                     Which belongs to me.
                                          It’s my face. I – own it.
                                                        It’s my- my- my-
                                                        And it freezes there
just his face is all I can see then the video continues for a
split second then freezes again
                                   His face
                                   His face
                                   His face       It’s him
                                                        It’s him
                                                        It’s him.
I stop the video and I put the phone down on the table
and I breathe very deeply and
every time I blink, between every saccade
there is his face
                            a face I know intimately
                                                      ­         and it’s looking away from me.
I turn on the television. It is Saturday.
He is flying back from Asia on Tuesday. I have until then to
                                                              ­        what?
The sound and light from the television
flicker over me
And I sort of just empty,
Quietly, like a balloon disappearing into the sky.
I don’t know what I’m going to do but
for now that’s
fine.
The brown armchair swallows me up
and I cry for two hours without really noticing.
The cookery programme I’m not watching finishes and I think
the news is about to come on so I turn off the TV
and I put on my shoes
and I go down the stairs and out of the house
and I get in my car.
It’s raining and I just sit there.
Without starting the engine I flick on the windscreen wipers:
                                                         ­      Dit / dit.
                                                            ­   Dit \ dit.
                                                            ­   Dit / dit.
It takes less than three seconds for them to pass
from one side of the windscreen to the other.
And I get this feeling this
unexplainable feeling
that I want to crawl inside that moment
when the wipers are moving from one side of the screen
                                                          ­                   to the other.
I flip down the sun shield and look at myself in the mirror.
There are two lipsticks in the glove compartment.
I pick the darker one
                            and apply it
                                                 carefully
                                                       ­          sensually.
I start the car.
West London ebbs away to the motorway
My car is silver and in the rain it feels invisible
I don’t know where I’m going
                                I follow words on signposts I recognise the shape of
                                without really reading them
and I keep driving
I let my eyes come away from the road and
watch the fields and trees tick past like cells of film
and I look at the cars on the other carriageway
and I notice they’re all silver like mine
                                                        (onl­y mine is invisible)
and I duck as a Boeing 777 soars over near the M4 interchange
and let myself scream soundlessly under the roar of its engines.
I wonder where it came from.
                                          I think about the people on board.
I think about their mobile phones and
all the ******* there must be on them
and I realise
how many videos there must be in the world
of people having ***.
I take the M23 past Gatwick Airport
                                          the motorway ends but I keep driving
until finally I come to the sea.
No-one is here because it’s March and it’s raining.
I have always loved the sea.
Not sailing or swimming or surfing
Just being near it, for me it’s
                                   a spiritual experience.
I’ll lie on the stones and gaze at the sky for hours
but not today.
                     There are some flowers tied to a railing
                     somebody has drowned.
Presumably they never found a body to bury.
The awfulness of that strikes me like a stone.
                                                        It­’s the not knowing.
                                                        ­The lack of 100% concrete total proof.
I take my phone out of my handbag.
                                                        ­But I know now.
The shingle crunches underneath my flat shoes.
                                                        No­w I know.
The cold burns my ears and the wind picks up as I get closer to the water
the tide slips serpentine up the stones
white-edged
                     beckoning me.
Without realising I’ve slipped
                                                 out of
                                                            my­ shoes
but the stones do not hurt my coarse feet
and the wind
                     howling now
                                          catches me behind my knees
quickening my stride.
The spit curls around my toes.
And then I catch myself wondering
                                          whether my husband will call me or
                                          text me when he lands
and I hurl
       my phone
              into the sea.
On the drive home I listen to the radio.
The news is dominated by the Crimean conflict
and the referendum that’s coming up there.
Florence Nightingale
                            is all I can think about when they talk about Crimea.
Until recently I never even knew where it was.
At school you only learn about Florence Nightingale
                                   not the geography
                                          not the conflicts
                                                 not Ukraine’s edges so charred by
                                                               invasion and,
                                                                ­             subsequently,
                                                                ­                                  explosion.
                    ­               We live in so many war zones.
and I’m wondering what else I never learned about when
the story changes and now they are talking about a plane.
A plane is missing
                                   between Kuala Lumpur and Beijing
                                          and the blood drains out of me.
It isn’t like floating away like a balloon this time
it’s like plunging off a cliff.
And at once I see
                            with brilliant, burning clarity
                                                        m­y phone, ringing, on the sea bed
The light from the screen illuminates the stormy water but
I can’t see the name:
                                   I can’t see who’s calling.
I need to know.
I need to know it’s him.
       I drive back at twice the speed limit.
In the dark the flowers look menacing and half-dead; my
shoes fall off in the same place
But the tide is in so the whole beach looks different.
I’m up to my waist but my
top half
       is as wet
              as my bottom half
                            because the rain
                                          is torrential
                                                      ­  and I can still hear the phone ringing
                                                        b­ut I can’t see the light in the sea.
and I howl
       his name
but the wind carries it away soundlessly
       and I can’t tell if I’m
              further out
              or if the tide’s further in
                            and the ringing grows louder
                            as the current takes me powerfully by the waist and
                                                             ­         the stars rush by overhead.



iii. Acid rain

Every time I blink, between every saccade I see
a brilliant but infinitesimally brief flash of colour.
       Purple
       or green
       I think.
                     One on top of the other.
It’s hard to tell for sure because they’re so brief.
It’s like when you look at a light bulb for too long
                                                            ­   or stare directly at the sun.
I see it sometimes when I’m on my bike
or on a really big rollercoaster
                                   going downhill at 100 miles an hour
                                   the wind blasting through me
                                   the screams whirling through the air.
But I’m not on a rollercoaster, I’m sat very still
it’s Monday afternoon and I’m at school.
I haven’t said a single word to a single person today.
I didn’t even answer my name in the register.
I feel a bit dizzy like
                                   everything is turning together
                                   but I’m on a different
                                                       ­                 axis?
I think the bell goes, I’m
not a hundred percent sure,
but I leave anyway and no-one stops me.
       Outside in the sunshine the flashes of colour are
       several thousand times brighter.
In the next lesson I slip in my earbuds and
it looks like the teacher is singing the words.
                                                 I put on the most obscene song I can find.
I must have it on too loud
because eventually she notices and
she forces me to give her the headphones. This is the first time
someone has spoken to me today
                                          it feels a bit surreal
                                                         ­      but the world stops spinning
                                                        ­       a bit.
After school I go into the supermarket on Wigmore Lane
the enormous white of it is tinged in green and purple
and all I want is to buy a drink
                            I have a feeling of exactly the kind of drink I want
                            but I can’t find the right one
                            even though the fridge must be longer than
                            the driveway of my house.
Racks of newspapers and magazines clamour for my attention
       the only real colour in this great white warehouse of a store
       red tops and blue spreads
       and green and purple and green and purple
              and green and purple…
They’re talking about that missing plane in the news
and they keep using the same phrase.
They’re talking about the people on board the missing plane
and they keep saying
                            Missing
                      ­      presumed dead.
Not dead dead. Presumed dead.
I start wondering what it’s like to be both dead and alive at the same time,
as if all the people on board that plane are like Schrödinger’s cat
              (cats)
and we won’t know whether they’re dead or alive until we find the plane
and pull it out of the sea
and look inside
                     so
                         until then
                     they’re both.
Out in the car park I count the planes as they descend onto
the runway less than a mile away.
       One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,
       I figure about a hundred and eighty a plane maybe,
       which means fifteen hundred people just arrived in Luton.
Nobody comes to Luton for the scenery.
Soon they’ll be gone,
A town haunted by a ghost population of thousands an hour.
                                                 filtered onto the trains and buses
                                                 and out from the sprawling car parks
                                                 to the motorway, and
                                                 onto connecting flights back into Europe
              but none of them will stay in Luton
                                                           ­                  Missing
                                                         ­                    presumed dead.
As I bike through Luton I think it might not be so strange to be dead and alive at the same time.
I’ve lived here my whole life and the whole place
                                                           ­                         which is a *******
                                                 moves with the mundanity of machinery
                                                 like the big car factories by the airport
                                                 the lights on, the production lines rolling
                                                 but all a bit automatic and lifeless.
But in the airport, it’s different.
The air, with its artificial chill, hangs with a faint shimmer
and the people here move purposefully, and with charge
                                                          ­     excitedly
                                                       ­                      or dejectedly
                                                      ­         but not neutrally
heading for the gates where they are sealed two hundred a time into airtight tubes
like Schrödinger’s cat:
                            dead and alive in the air;
                            one or the other on the ground.
                                                         ­      My teachers say I have an
                                                              ­ “odd way of looking at things”.
I leave my bike outside without chaining it up and go into the terminal.
In a café in the check-in hall I find exactly the drink I want
and I pay £2.75 for it.
                            I look at the departure boards.
                            Edinburgh. Bonn. Marseilles.
                            A green light flashes next to each gate as it opens
                                                           ­                  green and purple
                                                          ­                   green and purple
                                                          ­                                 Missing
                                                         ­                                  presumed dead
The flashes of colour are growing brighter
every time I move my eyes a green and purple streak follows behind like a jet stream
but the bustle and activity of the airport is so much that I can’t keep my eyes still
       so they keep darting
                            this way and that
                                                 until my vision is painted over
                                                            ­                 green and purple.
The streaks roll over each other like clouds of acid rain.
       This is the final call for flight 370 to–
My bike is gone when I go back outside
The front of the terminal is a plateau of thousands upon thousands of cars
and it’s probably in one of them
                                          but I’ll never know which.
The car parks reach all the way back to the runway.
Green and purple acid rain from all the jet fuel mixed with the air
melts a hole in the fence and I slip through
moving purposefully
                            with charge
                                          across the green and purple grass
                                          scorched by a hundred thousand landings
                                          a hundred thousand people arriving in Luton
And there on the tarmac
                     glinting in the rain
                     surrounded by blinking amber
       there is my bike
       its black handlebars spread like the wings of a jet plane.
I duck as an Airbus screams in just a few feet over my head
the rush from the engine lifting the soles of my feet from the ground.
I pick up the bike and start pedalling
                                                 pedalling down the runway
                                                 pedalling towards the blinking amber.
It feels light, nimble, fast
the tyres take the asphalt with ease.
And the faster I go the lighter I feel
       the acid rain eats away at my clothes
       and they melt off my body and pool on the runway below,
                     Lighter
                            and lighter until…
                                                 The wheels lift away from the ground
                                                          ­     and in the air I am dead and alive
                                                 and maybe nobody will
                                                                ­                           ever
                                                            ­                               see me
                                                                ­                           again.



iv. Burning sky

The faster I go, the lighter I feel.
I’ve taken the night watch and the yacht
is cruising across the Indian Ocean
penetrating the black abyss like a white bullet
and the lights in the portholes send shimmering white bullet shapes
for miles across the endless ink.
                                                            ­                 What?
                     We’re not going very fast at all
                     But it feels like any minute
                                                 we might drop off the edge of the world.
I hope we do.
I feel light and dizzy and irrational
                                          and I feel aware of being
                                          light and dizzy and irrational
and I wonder if this is what going mad feels like.
Have you ever felt like you’re living in a corner of your own life?
I
       feel like that a lot lately.
Marc is sleeping.
We didn’t speak much today.
I can’t really remember how long it’s been
       since we left Victoria but the fight
       we had there
                            in a bistro by the port we
       said things we
       said things that
                            we can’t take back.
The Seychelles were stifling.
The heat was stifling.
He was stifling.
And the people were stifling
                                   the people kept talking about pirates.
                                   They kept warning us about pirates.
                                   You’re sailing where
                                                        the­y say
                                   You must be careful
                                                        t­hey say
                                   It’s notorious
                                                       ­ they say
I have fantasies about being kidnapped by pirates.
Not stupid Johnny Depp pirates with *** and parrots, no
       Real pirates.
                     Nasty pirates.
                     With dark snarls and AK-47s.
When we were at sea off the Horn I’d see things on the horizon
Dots or lights I couldn’t make out
And I’d imagine the rifle against my neck
Their hot breath
Chains and ransoms.
                          I’d wonder how much we’d be worth.
                          If we’d make national news.
                          Would it be David Cameron to announce,
                                                       ­        regrettably,
                                                    ­           we don’t negotiate with pirates,
                          or would it be someone less important?
                          Maybe just the foreign secretary.
                          What is the worth of my life at the end of a steel barrel?
But it would only be a buoy, or a plane on the horizon,
and I would get into bed with Marc
       disappearing under the covers like a different kind of hostage.
I
              oh
                                   I
                                                 Sorry
I’m crying.
                     I don’t know when I started crying.
The thing is I don’t know if it’s me breaking the marriage
or the marriage breaking me.
I’m watching everything literally fall to pieces and for all I know
it’s me with the detonator.
And then
              everything
literally falls to pieces
                            My mug of coffee falls from my hand
                            shatters on the deck
                                                            ­and the sea rears up nightmarishly.
Above me
a long orange **** of flame
is burned into the sky.
                            No, really.
                            That’s not a metaphor.
                                                       ­        There is fire in the sky.
It’s about a mile up and a mile away.
Look.
       There.
              ****.
                            **** **** ****.
What is that?
                                   Marc!
I call for Marc.
                                   Marc!
       There is fire in the sky.

–              Katherine.

       Fire in the sky.
       Fire in the
       Fire in

–              Katherine.

       Fire

–              Katherine.

       What
              Marc, what?

–              Are you awake?

       I think so.

–              You were calling out again.

       Calling

–              Calling out. You were shouting.

       What
       where
       What time is it?
                                   Where

–              Dubai. We’re in Dubai. It’s 7.
                They delayed again while you were sleeping.

       Dubai?

–              Katy I really think you should see a doctor.

       Don’t call me that.

–              Pardon?

       Katy.
       Don’t call me that.
                                          Like

–          ­                                       Like what?

       Everything’s okay.



       Everything’s not okay.

–               There’s
                 doctors. You’re not well. You’ve been confused since,
                 well actually since before it even happened.

       You think I’ve been confused.

–              Not right.
                Not you.

       You’re **** right.

–              Forget it.

       Thank you.

–              Go back to sleep. ****.



–              Are you still seeing it?
                The plane? On fire.
                                   You’re dreaming about it, aren’t you?

       Yes.

–              It’s affecting you?

       I’m
              just
                     unhappy,
       Marc.

–              That’s not just it though is it?

       What’s that supposed to mean?

–              Something about seeing that
                                                           ­   plane has scared you.

       We don’t know it was the plane.
       The one that –

–                            No. But, right place, right time.
              They said

       Maybe.

–              It’s still a coincidence.
                It’s not

                                   What

–                                   A sign.
                                     From god.
                                     Or
                                          whatever.

     ­                                     Whatever you think it means.



                            Katherine.

       The thing I don’t know, Marc
       is if I’m more scared that it was the plane
       or that it wasn’t.



       Imagine.
       Vanishing.
       Into thin air.

–              I know.

                            No, you don’t.
       Disappearing
                            into thin air
       Or falling
                            out of it.

–              Falling.

       You can’t imagine that.

–              I can.



–              I can, Katy.
                I ******* can
                                          Imagine.
       ­         Falling.
                Disappearing.
             ­   Into thin air.

                *******
                            i­nvisible.

                 I am
                           right
                          ­          ******* here,
                                                        K­atherine.

       I see you.
       I see you Marc.
       But you’re not
                            solid.

       I’m not
                            solid.
                          ­                              See?

                           ­                             It passes
                                                          ­     right through.

       Now you see me.
                                   Now yo–



v. 2015

Have you ever felt like you’re living in a corner of your own life?
The hotel room here in Singapore is almost identical
to the room I had in Mexico City.
The heat feels the same and it’s the same
nondescript decoration
which doesn’t really belong to any time or culture.
It gives me a headache. The neutrality of it.
As I check my messages I remember
                                                        ­       I’m not in Singapore.
I’m in Kuala Lumpur.
I haven’t been home for nearly three weeks now.
It’s ridiculously late
The IOC conference is at six thirty
              and I’ve been asleep all day.
                                   I get dressed and grab my camera
                                   and leave the hotel with a large, black coffee.
At the press call I see a man from Reuters I recognise.
       The coffee here is terrible.
I talk to him about his family
              his daughter is four now
              he’s shaved off his beard since I last saw him
              and he’s moving, he says,
                                                 near me apparently
                                                 to Southend.
                                                       ­               “London Southend” he jokes
                                                                ­      with a roll of his eye
                                                             ­         and inverted commas.
I say yeah that’s quite near me then move away to take a phone call.
Inside the press conference there are ten people at the table
       the women are all wearing identical powder blue suits which
       strikes me as idiosyncratically Asian for no good reason.
The men all wear simultaneous translation headphones
                                                      ­                but the women don’t.
I wonder if this is because they speak better English than the men
or if it just isn’t considered necessary to translate for them.
       They have given the Winter Olympics to Beijing.
              I wonder what is lost between the
              Mandarin spoken by the mayor of Beijing
              and the English spoken by the translator.
                                                     ­          The space between words.
                                                          ­     The space between looking left
                                                            ­                               and looking right.
It’s a nice atmosphere in the cool air-conditioned room.
I’m struck by how nice everyone is
       except for the British delegates
       including the man from Reuters who speculates
       that the voting was rigged.
A while later someone else calls it a “farce”.
              I get a photograph of the IOC President’s face
                                                            ­          as it falls
              and email it to my office from my seat.
Outside, the Petronas towers rise above the conference centre like
enormous empty silos.
This is my first time in Kuala Lumpur
                                          the last city I have to visit before I go home.
I get in a taxi and say the name of my hotel
                                          and the city flashes by.
I look out of the window at
the buildings as they pass and they
don’t so much slide past
                                   or glide past
                                                        the motion isn’t smooth.
They sort of click past.
They tick past, dit-dit-dit:
Building after building
                            dit-dit-dit-dit-dit
My eyes don’t quite refresh the image fast enough
to keep up with all the buildings
                            as they pass.
The taxi stops and I pay seventeen ringgit and get out:
it has gone by the time I realise this is not my hotel.
I don’t know where I am but I was in the taxi long enough to know that I
am some distance
                            from the centre of the city.
I look up at the name of the hotel the driver has taken me to
and the English transliteration is very similar to the name of the hotel I am staying in.
       I go inside.
There’s a nightclub in the hotel
I order Glenfiddich
                            double,
                 ­           cut with water.
              not because I like it but
              because there’s something about scotch that feels
                                                           ­                         moneyed
              heavy amber liquid in heavy-bottomed glasses
              it helps me buy into this idea of the travelling businessman
              even though that’s a lie.
                                                        I’m just a man who takes pictures.
                                                       ­ And I want to go home.
I sit at the bar which is as long as my driveway.
I swirl my glass and watch the amber legs trickle down the sides.
A moving light above it hits the gloss black surface
with an open white like the early morning sun on my gravel
                                                          ­                   as I get into my car.
A girl from here, young enough to be my daughter, is talking to me.
She points out her friends and I half-wave, uneasily
and she asks what I’m drinking.
                                          A news alert on my phone says a piece of
                                          plane wreckage
                                          washed up
                                                        on Réunion
                                                        i­n the Indian Ocean,
                                   east of Madagascar and south of the Seychelles.
The girl seems nice. She says her name is Dhia
                                                            ­                 it means “glowing”.
She doesn’t seem to want anything,
certainly not ***;
her friends have disappeared so
                                          I dance with her.
As we dance I see something in her eyes that is at once
both young and
                     endlessly wise.
She has deep brown eyes exactly the colour of earth
and a small mouth which smiles brilliantly.
In the half-light they open up to me like pools
                                                 and I imagine
                                                         ­             swimming
                                           ­      in them.
Even though she’s only nineteen, twenty-one at most,
there is something about her that’s
                                          maternal
       ­                                   spiritual
                    ­                      nourishing.
She asks me what I’m doing in Kuala Lumpur and I tell her
I don’t know.
She asks me what I did today and I tell her I
                                                               ­              slept
                                                           ­           then took some photographs.
You’re a photographer, she says, and I shrug
then she leans into my ear and says
                                                        don’­t tell anyone.
What
       I say
and she says
              I’m a princess.
And I look into her eyes and she isn’t lying.
She says no-one is going to recognise her
but
       just in case
                            she isn’t supposed to be seen drinking.
Who would I tell
I say to her.
She grins and finishes her beer and it’s true
                                   no-one is looking at her
                                   but she’s the most magnetic person in the room.
In the taxi I say the name of my hotel extremely slowly
and the driver replies in perfect English
                                                         ­      yes sir, I know where you mean.
Kuala Lumpur ticks by in electric darkness.
I flick through the news as we drive
                                                 I see the photo I took this evening about
                                                 a dozen times
                                                 or more.
There is something bitter about the tone in all the British press when they talk about the Olympics
as if:
Beijing get to do it twice?
                                   What about us?
I think about a country with a quarter of the world’s population
and I think about the tiny little island I’ve come from
                                                        and I feel smaller than I’ve ever felt.
The aircraft wing that washed up in Réunion is from a Boeing 777,
they say.
The same type of aircraft as the one that went down last year.
The one they never found.
                            It was going from here to Beijing.
                            Last communication at 1.19am.
And it’s at
                     that
                     time
                     precisely
                                   my phone rings.
It’s my boss in London
she says the Chinese Olympic Committee
are scheduling press conferences.
                                                    ­    It looks like I’m going to Beijing.
Written 2016-2020.

— The End —