Fuck

The sex was good.

Not 'special', as such, but all molten heat and both pouring out sweat and wild wolf screams; enough to set the morning on fire. A few minutes in, a power cut. It was just getting light outside, I heard a bulb blow downstairs, shards of glass rattling on the laminate. Milk man Recyling van all doing their duties, serving the people; the single mothers, porridge on spoon, the old ladies, fumbling for their eyes as the alarm clock resounds through papery walls, the dog walkers, the selfish reversing lorry siren, the paper boy, the girl he sees through the window and falls in love with.

We lie silent. Breathless. Not a sound and I can see her heart raising up and pushing out the skin towards the ceiling.

Family Tea

is there not a battle left to win? for all of those girls and for those boys who hate their mummys and daddys and want to throw rocks, smash glass, scream louder louder LOUDER until grandma's best blue vase breaks into four china segments on the kitchen tiles. for all of those babies in baskets which the stork dropped 'cause he got distracted by television, chip shops, the gambling man, the hot weather cloud, society, certain death. such lack of concentration, no ability, petty quarrels and flying plates hit wall hit ceiling. mankind; the adults are squashed - byebyeoxygen - beneath the giant hand of inevitabilty that floods their ears and nostrils while we, so young and free fly up (through the bulldozed brick piles, black sweat tarmac, hot shovels, detritus flakes littering the burned up patio) and burst out into earth like sweet wallflowers, into the warm july breeze to scream back at your taunts, you parents; why the lies? if i eat this carrot my eyes will not become torches, there is not a blackcloakedpaedophile under my bed, if i go cross eyed the wind will not grapple with my pupils until they stay that way. why did you tell us that you were always right? that we we were always wrong? that we should always listen. when i break out of our already broken household - because daddy walked out (said he fell in love with a nice blonde girl) and left mummy on her own with big tears, just some really informative sciencebooks, and nine year old with falling out hair; leukaemia bruises up and down legs - i am so free. i love the night air, the solitude, the gravel and the dirt rolling down my back under my t-shirt, the cigarette breath making smokeclouds and ghost shapes out my mouth, the flickery streetlamp, the empty road, the empty pavement, the no oneness. it is here; in this moment i detest mankind

Stuhl des Krieges

and i guess that where the armchair rests, fire on fire, blood on lips of the beholder we shake so silently, watching, the murk and dust that slides into the damp fissures, escalating all quiet and solemn; n o b o d y s i t s h e r e a n y m o r e and i hate it and i scream at my armchair and at my white blank and staringeyes living room walls with the ivy ivy ivy all stuck to the walls with its glue green fingers; God help me i scream, but i do not like the Maker, 'cause he is so wrong wrong wrong and people are dying up and down and in water and dust-on-face malice weapons that crack alive the dry yellow morning sky, why can it not be me with gunshots in my brain and tumorous absyss' - a hole of death for those alive to rot? oh gently - and army coat smothered in mucus and filth and sloppy tears and pain and squeals from the craggy rock edges as the next hit little boy, (only gone to do his daddy proud) is launched like an
elastic thunderbolt
into extinction,
and all i can do is stand and scream FUCK at my red armchair, it's legs all knotted twists of pine, hot brown toastlike coloured, almost edible. why do they get ripped apart at the seams, fucked for following their dreams? brady with the buttoned up/down shirt, pale blue stripe and black plimsolls used to sit on my red armchair on sundays, drink my firehot tea from the mug with the rainbow on but now he is dead in dust all alone and that's all i can say