Shipwrecked

Posted: April 1, 2012 in Poetry

At sunrise I saw him,
In rusty casing,
Tarnished,
Burnt by the breeze,
Branded with sea salt and in-memoriam’s knife.
His soldered cracks seeped past misdemeanours;
Sanded edges softened spiked blows.

At eventide I saw him,
Lichen-love,
Suffocated,
Gasping for air.
Jetsam ditched, lagan abandoned;
His flotsam washed upon my shore,
As the sirens stalked, singing… ‘I love you’.

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The Last Autopsy

Posted: March 22, 2012 in Productions

A short scene involving three characters and lots of entrails which I wrote a while back and recently re-discovered…
I hope you enjoy The Last Autopsy

My Loverbye

Posted: March 11, 2012 in Poetry

My Loverbye

Diseased butterflies,
Flutterbyes,
Shutter, gutter, stutterflies
Drip waxen tears of lust and hate.

My skin, it burns for you.
But, to open, spread, present and promise
Leaves me hollow from lip to lip.

Your stutterfly,
Shutterbye.
Gutter, tutter, nutterfly ignites
My all. My nothing.

Your tongue does pierce my soul.
My hole. My whole.
Oh, shutterbye love, extinguish my flame.

My flutterbye, stutterbye,
Beautiful, bastard lullaby.
My disease. My cure.
My lover, bye.

Brave enough to say it’s over

Posted: March 7, 2012 in Poetry

I pressed the red button today.
Torpedoes raced through streets of mayhem;
Mothers wailed, throwing babies out of razored windows.
Glass shards scattered across torched tarmac.

I pulled the trigger today.
Sneaked around crumbling columns, sight fixed on pain,
Dotted crosses on furrowed foreheads.
Oblivion: staining starched collars crimson.

I administered the injection today;
Ending dysmorphic visions of
Fatty tissue and engorged agony.
Sweet silence ebbed through swollen veins.

I broke my fast today.
Supping the hot cup of freedom scorched my throat.
I tasted liberty on my tongue & grief on my lips.
Dunked nuggets of independence left soggy reminders.

I high-fived life today;
Packed my lunch, dusted my heels & clicked three times.
Doting Dotty hop-scotched across parched amber tiles
As I waved ‘sayonara’, my face blistered by the sun.

Trojan9X9

Posted: February 29, 2012 in Monologues

Here’s a short monologue from one of the plays I’m working on, Black Berry. The character is Trojan9x9 – a businessman…or is  he?

Health. Family. Work.  In that order. When you’ve got your balls on the line and I’m standing over you with a claw hammer, you’re gonna need your strength to fight.

Family. Work. Health.  In that order.  When my hammer’s done its dirty business and you’re limping home with a ball sack as blue as a nun, you’re gonna need a hot mouth to help you forget.

Work. Health. Family. In that order.   We are the wired generation.  If you fuck up, there’s a hundred people waiting to replace you at the click of a button. Never forget that you are dispensable. Don’t lose focus. Ever.

Work. Health. Family. It’s all about juggling those three balls. Your balls.  My balls. Crystal fucking balls.  You can’t afford to drop any of them.  It’s all about getting the balance right.  I’ve got you teetering on a wire as thin as your dick and I’m telling you to perform.  Cirque de freak, cirque de chic, cirque of the fucking week; I don’t care if you’re Moscow State or council estate, this ain’t no fucking act.  Do what you’ve got to do to keep your balls in the air.

Walk the wire and don’t stop juggling. Do that and we won’t have a problem.

Jo

Posted: February 17, 2012 in Poetry

Jo; after our walk in the Garden of Zion,
Her sacrifice gave me breath
Void of hate, void of fear
She never succumbed to the drug
That I, in the garden, touched.

Jo; after our walk in the Garden of Zion,
Took my hand in hers,
I sang the song of disease
As she ran my palm over her breast,
And without the lust of Eden,
She left me to tempt another.

I am the flash

Posted: February 5, 2012 in Short Stories

As she chewed her lank hair, I thought how child-like she looked. If it hadn’t have been for her full breasts, their nipples hard from the breeze lapping over her naked torso, I would’ve reckoned she was no more than twelve years old. There was a child’s vulnerability behind those watery eyes. It made me want to hold her, and yet something was holding me back. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the gun she held nonchalantly in her hand that stopped me, but her defiant look. It was then that it struck me; this pitiful creature believed that she was in control. Laid bare to the elements her body was free for whoever wanted to look, yet she felt empowered.

Crouched inside her freeze-frame, she embodied both the urge to nurture and to destroy. Her posture was one of power and control, yet her eyes showed a wormhole of weakness. “Who are you trying to fool?” I asked her. My voice roused her from her hypnotic state of denial, “You’re not in control. You’re not the flash.”

She rolled over on top of me, pinning me down. I didn’t resist her frustration; it meant she was listening. Her mouth snarled, but her grip didn’t embody the same aggression. She looked like a ferret – her teeth bared ready to bite and her neck ready to be effortlessly snapped. She fell onto me, her breasts pushing against mine.  Her skin was soft to the touch but, instead of feeling any sense of eroticism, I was disgusted. She was no more in control now than she was as a child, cowering behind the school bins as punches were thrown and her face was spat upon.

She abandoned the gun and held my arms above my head. She pressed her mouth against mine and ran her tongue over my lips. I opened my mouth and let her explore me. She tasted of blueberries. Her grip around my wrists was weak. Her legs straddling my waist were trembling. She pulled away from me. Her chest was covered in goosebumps. I stared her in the eye. She coquettishly hid behind her fringe as it fell across her face. I smiled at her. She bit her lip. She stroked her fingers down the side of my face.

The ferret was beginning to trust me. Silly mistake.  I reached for the gun.

I am the camera.

I am the flash.