The Shopper (2016)

I am the shopper,

I rise when they open.

I don’t like the new shops

That are open all night.

At least they close

On Saturday at midnight.

And then again

On Sunday at five.

Or four.

I am the shopper,

I have my own bags.

I don’t need to spend 5p

On one at the till.

They’re strong and solid

And have always served me well.

I rearrange

The things inside

Them all.

I am the shopper,

Just ask me the time.

I’ll reply with a grin

An upside down frown.

The colours of the stickers

Of each shop’s own markdown

Are easy to learn.

Oh I can explain

And recall.

I am the shopper

And I watch you each morning.

You walk from the station,

Away from the sunrise.

Sometimes I can even

See your sleepy almond eyes

A blurred mile away

From it all.

I am the shopper

Our routines intersect.

I wait by the bicycles

Until you stroll past.

You don’t see me there.

That’s part of our pact.

The daily game,

Central.

I am the shopper

Today was a good day.

You wore your long coat

And the memory foam trainers.

You’d been to the shop.

You had milk in your bag:

It was Co-op red top.

It’s better to stay

Local.

I am the shopper.

You are a shopper too.

Tomorrow is another good day:

Fresh fruit delivery.

Tonight I wait in the shadows.

Excited, rapt, shivery.

My bag wet with your

Eyeballs.

(Note: In 2016, I collaborated with a photographer to write stories around some of their pics. The collaboration didn't get anywhere, but it was a good exercise. Of three pieces I've just rediscovered, I think this one stands on its own merits without the pic).

Joe’s Fun Afternoon

 A lovely story for all ages.

One day (today, in fact), Joe sat in front of his computer. He was trying to work but it wasn't going well. Then he had an idea.

"I know," he said to himself. "My friend Steve, who is a writer, says that sometimes when he gets a bit stuck he goes for a walk or does something active."

But what could Joe do?

He didn't want to do the fucking washing up.

He really, really didn't want to do the fucking bins.

He was absolutely fucked if he was going to go anywhere near the fucking hoovering.

"Oh what am I to do?" he wondered. Then he had an idea.

He smiled to himself.

Yes!

He would go upstairs and reattach the blind that had fallen off the wall in the bedroom!

That would be good, and it would help him sleep because the arsehole sun would be a little bit blocked in the morning.

So off he went, upstairs.

He took a screwdriver.

He took some screws.

He went upstairs and came back down again.

The silly goose had forgotten the rawlplugs!

Joe came back down.

"Oh, I'd better take this drill as well," he said. "And that hammer. I don't want to make a mess."

And up he went.

And, what do you know?

He put the rawlplugs in the holes.

He tapped them in with his hammer.

He picked up the wall bracket that had fallen off the blind.

And he screwed it in!

"Oh this is great," Joe said, out loud. "This is a very sturdy and excellent and clean fix!"

And so he lifted up the blind -which by the way was about three feet wider than he thought it had been, because he thought it was measured in cm but the seller on ebay was using inches - and put it within the brackets.

Except it wouldn't fit, because it was out by about half an inch and the brackets were so well-screwed-in that they would not budge.

"Oh, you absolute fucking cunting wank shit piece of aids," quipped Joseph. "You fucking fuck from fucking fuckland. Fuck you."

And he took out the screws.

And he took out the rawlplugs.

And he took out the bracket.

"No problem," he lied, sweating like a fucking shitting dog. "I will take my drill and the masonry bit and drill two new guide holes."

So he unscrewed the drill thing and put in the masonry bit and drilled two new holes exactly where the blind's new bracket needed to be.

And he put rawlplugs in the holes.

And he tapped the plugs with the hammer.

And he picked up the bracket again.

And he screwed it in, a little worried because it seemed a touch too easily done.

But he lifted up the blind, which was stupidly massively wider than the window, because he had confused centimetre measurements with inches, and it fit!

Oh! It fit perfectly!

But because the wall was fucking shit and the holes he'd drilled were too close to the other holes, the whole fucking thing came crashing down onto the floor, taking about eight inches of plaster with it.

And now there are two even bigger holes in the wall; two massive, round, crumbly fucking holes, which need filling somehow.

Oh silly Joe!

He should have done the fucking hoovering!

He should have washed up yet a fucking gain!

He should have done his work on the computer.

He should have done the stinking, fucking shitty, smelly, heavy bins!

Oh Joe! You are a cunt! You stupid fucking useless cunt! Now you have to go to buy some expanding foam from B&Ms.Oh what a silly sausage!

And that is the story of Joe's Afternoon.

Joe wonders sometimes why he has never got a deal for his kids' books.

Load I Up

Ach

Crushing at my chest

pushing the bone down

I can’t stand up and I can’t stand this

Breathing shallow, scared to cough

and I can’t get through to the doc

so I’m calibrating fast

Doctor Google on my smartphone

load up the naproxen I bought online

Egyptian gabapentin, ah fuck it, why not

til my head is transparent enough

half-asleep, but I can’t rest

this won’t do it on its own:

chomp at the butter, give me some wine

and I’m bouncing marshmallow-stuff

when I half-fly in lovely cloud to the shop

The pain is still there

but my body is miles gone

I know that it hurts, but nevertheless

I can sit here, my brain is cut off

til each comedown smacks me up rough

And I’ll do it tomorrow again

Cause there’s nobody on the line

I’ll stand up and fight through it

Each day is a challenge and this is mine

cause I’m not going back to that A&E hell

unless I keel over; so I calibrate well.

THE MERCILESS RIFF MACHINE MANIFESTO

THE MERCILESS RIFF MACHINE shall always be written in capitals.

This is because THE MERCILESS RIFF MACHINE plays in CAPITAL LETTERS.

THE MERCILESS RIFF MACHINE is a blend of Stax, Sex Pistols, Bellrays and Beastie Boys.

THE MERCILESS RIFF MACHINE fucks like a beast.

THE MERCILESS RIFF MACHINE flays your skin.

THE MERCILESS RIFF MACHINE looks fucking sharp as fuck.

THE MERCILESS RIFF MACHINE has better lights and sound than God at Glastonbury.

THE MERCILESS RIFF MACHINE shall play some or all of the following songs: I Like to Move It; Ride On Time; Ace of Spades; Beggin’; Cuddly Toy (Roachford); Seven Nation Army; Overload (Sugababes); Not Gonna Get Us (TaTu); Sound of the Underground (Girls Aloud); Fight for your Right (To Party); Feel Good Hit of the Summer; Addicted to Bass; Low Place Like Home; The Final Countdown; Super Freak; Run To The Hills; Hellfudge; Smooth Criminal;

THE MERCILESS RIFF MACHINE will never play any of these fucking songs: Come on Eileen; anything by Fleetwood fucking Mac; anything by Madonna; anything by the Beatles or the Rolling Stones.

Anyone who requests any song from THE MERCILESS RIFF MACHINE shall be ejected from the venue and banned from any future performances without refund and with no exceptions.

Note: This is from about 2013 when I was definitely going to put a shit hot band together to do some shit hot music and make some shit hot money. Obviously, it never happened. As I recall, Duncan Black was 100% in on the idea. I wonder if this might have been an early nod toward what eventually became Rabo de Toro?

The Ballad of Sugarcane Valley High

It was the perfect Valley town, as humble as they come

Sun-blessed, simple, and as pretty as a picture

Teenagers drinking milkshakes as they got their homework done;

then they’d dance to jukebox records in the diner.

--

And here comes Eugene: he’s the starting quarterback

for the Panthers, who ain’t ever lost a game.

Eugene’s fleet of foot, and he’s never missed a pass,

and if he’s tackled – why, he gets right up again.

Six foot two with Olympian build,

and the most piercing baby blues you’ll ever see.

They say they’re lining up to hand him scholarships;

Eugene just says: “Well, what will be, will be.”

But nobody knows that when Eugene is at home

the headaches start to hammer at his skull.

The pain is overwhelming and he has to lie right down

as the panic and the pressure takes its toll.

And Eugene’s drinking whisky from the bottle every night

just to snatch a desolate hour or two of sleep

and he’s starting to feel slower, and he’s starting to black out

on the field, but nobody’s noticed yet.

His sweetheart, Mary-Lou, a vision in a floaty dress.

A brown-eyed redhead classy and petite.

She’s top of all her classes, destined for the highest grades,

and she’s got the future at her tiny feet.

But Mary-Lou’s got secrets that not even Eugene knows;

not least one growing right there in her womb.

It’s too painful still for her to even start to recall how;

that night her uncle came into her room.

She’s been swiping tranx and anaesthesia of late;

her daddy is the Valley’s only dentist.

Mary-Lou’s got a clutch bag full of sweet barbiturates

and something very special for tonight.

Cause Sugarcane Valley High School’s celebrating

with a dance inside the gym, and all are guests.

One last bash, a party for the champions-in waiting -

Those Panthers, man, the wonder-team. The best.

The perfect couple strides into the building, hand in hand,

to cheers and to handshakes: they’re the Valley’s hopes made flesh.

And when nobody’s looking, the girl finds the bowl of punch

and laces it with fentanyl of rhino-stopping strength;

and when he can, Eugene steps out, and turns on the gas taps,

the gym begins to fill with silent death;

he reaches for his best gal, and they slink under the bleachers

and solemnly, and slowly start to fuck;

they watch the townsfolk yawn and droop

glasses smashing on the hardwood floor;

the drugs take hold, the bodies fall,

insensible and breathing shallow now;

Eugene and Mary-Lou lock eyes. It’s time to end this game.

It’s time to really blow this joint – and how!

She opens up her Zippo lighter, coaxes out a flame;

the lovers laugh – the High School gym explodes.

--

It was a perfect Valley town, they say, the ones who did survive;

it’s hard to tell amidst the charcoal wreck;

but here once played a legendary side

unbeaten, with a Greek God at its head;

and here danced the most beautiful girl;

who had the world and stardust at her feet.

But ask no questions - move on quickly, traveller -

the answers may be ones that haunt your dreams.

Not the first, or the last

I’m not the first person to suffer a loss. I’m not even the first person in my family to experience it. And so this feeling of self-indulgence recurs; there’s a sense that I’m somehow milking it. That by now I ought to have, in some way, gotten over it. And that’s me, telling myself these things.

That every time I write something new it seems to be the same introspective guff with themes of being de-anchored, of not knowing where things fit anymore, or saying how very changed I am. Well, there’s another feeling and another thought that’s starting to counter that, too.

That is: so what?

And, yes, even that very un-useful internal dialogue, expressed outward, seems to be a call for sympathy, for head pats and for soothing noises. Like a stricken animal. These are my puppydog eyes, literally writ.

There’s a third feeling, thought, notion: it is somehow important to me, for me, to look at me. To write these things down. Typing out some form of – what? Therapy? Self-care? I suppose all these words are jigsaw pieces to a puzzle of which I don’t yet know the picture. Perhaps, also, I never will.

So it is, in many ways, a fool’s errand to obsess about trying to capture the moments in which I feel I can at a distance sketch out something of those parts of myself which need attention. Mostly they need me to cuddle or coddle or curdle them; the output is nearly always something that I share. I don’t know why that urge exists, but I know that it is a demanding one that won’t leave me alone unless I capitulate.

As objective as I can be about it, I am beginning to believe that these pieces are the ripples, the aftershocks from a sudden bereavement. But it is also true, I think, to say that these emotions and shards of language were also always possible. Their own form wasn’t yet made. They were, too, pieces seeking a puzzle’s picture. And to stretch that metaphor: there is no neat box to put them in and to shut the lid. If there ever was, it was only a matter of time before something came along to rip that packaging apart. Torn, unrecognisable forever.

I’m not the first person or the last to be living with death; it is a feature, or a bug, of being born in the first place. What I do know, and I know it with more certainty than probably anything else I’ve ever been sure of, is that each individual – scared, confused, lonely, angry, bereft – is the first person to experience death in their own self. Very different.

So what?

So that.

And so this:

be kind.

Be kind to yourself. I will try and be kind to myself, even if it seems like I’m wallowing awhile, and even at those times when what comes out is a desperate blubbering blast of helplessness. I don’t think it’s self-indulgence, as such. On the contrary, it’s impossible to even think about trudging forward without self-acknowledgement; self-care requires complete self-honesty. I am sorry for myself sometimes. And seeing that I am is very important indeed. Couching it in language shows me parts of myself that would otherwise remain tangled up. Things that would trip me up. That. I don’t need. And on we go.

Carapace

Don’t talk about how I have ever come back;

I did not want this new destination.

You don’t recover, you don’t return

because everything has changed.

It’s not correct to look at preparation

for something so quickened and strange.

And if a deity is close to hand

then grasp at them with gasping grip.

Whatever comforts, in its turn

reveals itself or sidles off.

And what is left is left unfixed

surveying the broken stuff.

The locus reasserts itself

and bundles you forward again

through forests petrified and burned

and senses all deranged;

you build a carapace once more

that reassures. A cage.

Trapped here to always nod and smile,

receiving heartfelt love.

A blurred and desperate attempt

to reconstruct yourself.

An hour, a day, a week, a month

go by in a curdling spell.

All movement is outside; the dullness within

won’t sharpen and burnish away.

No whetstone to re-keen,

no steel to spike sparks.

Spluttering and swept ever further awry

from an anchor cast loose in the dark.