An awkward conversation.

There was a dull chill in the air, a handful of stars in the sky. Her skin had taken on a pale defence to the night's weather, and yet still she sighed contentedly. She must've been sat on this mound for around four hours, more or less. Her legs had become slightly numb, but she needn't have realised for lack of movement.
"You don't always come here, do you?", Came a sultry Voice without intention, as though it had always been there.
"Well... no", she replied rather obviously, glancing downward slightly to the mound on which she sat.
"Oh", came the Voice once more, as though expecting much more of an answer, "Well... You aren't planning on leaving?".
"No actually", she replied wistfully, her colourless eyes fixed upon the few stars and the lack-lustre blue beyond it.
"Well it won't go away..." came the Voice, now seating itself beside her, though she paid it no attention, "That is to say, it won't come back? Well you know, that, that down there... it won't go away, but, the thing that it was, well... it's... gone. Yes. Quite gone".
"Aren't you supposed to be a little more... informed on this matter?", the girl asked quite naturally.
There was a pause after this, in which the Voice sat quite calmly at her side, imitating the girl's glance toward the stars. It shifted it's weight upon the earth now and then, and applied itself to an itch upon it's arm, but otherwise it was rather still.
"It just becomes a little bit of all the same... if you follow?", the Voice queried as an unidentifiable bird swept past heavily with one lift of it's wings.
"I don't I'm afraid. I'd of only assumed you were here to offer me something".
"Offer you something?", the Voice's velvety slithering tone took on a slight crackle.
"Well yes, advice, a choice, an offer, an exchange... Is that not how the stories go? The stories I had read as a child...".
"Well that should tell you it all! You were a child when you read them, things have changed", the Voice came with a classic huff, had it have bothered moving it would certainly have folded it's arms and turned it's head at this point. But it's ancient-tones shared enough.
"I am eighteen years old. And these stories have been passed to my school from the Greek times. I do enjoy reading you know", the girl maintained her wistful tone, her eyes ever upon the blues and silvers of the night.
"Well... do you not suppose you should be at home, reading then? There is not a sweeter way to mourn than to read into another view of life that you only wished was yours!".

Her expression did not change, but she said no more. A desperate and rolling cry came from somewhere nearby, of which the Voice assumed to be that recently passed large bird. It ceased, and the general clatter and scurrying of the middle of the night (which It was so very used to) became clear once more.
The Voice rolled it's hands around one another slowly, and glanced back to the mound on which they were sat. The girl had slightly sunken into the fresh mound of earth, having been sat on it for so long. Little tufts of grass from either side of the mound were poking through and swaying in the breezeless eve, and the stone of which the mound leant slightly against glistened silently and still in the silver glare of the moon. It looked alone, and for the briefest of moments, the Voice felt rather sorry for the girl. But it passed, as it always had done.
"Look", came the Voice once again, after a long quiet, "I didn't mean what I said, I suppose, well... you know... you've got that job at that bar and... well, don't you just get irritated when customers tell you how to do your job? Not to say you're a customer... Or even a client, I mean, this is different...".
The girl looked slightly toward the Voice, and sighed. He really was mumbling on about nothing, and with her view on life as it currently was, she was aware that she no longer had time for such rambling.

"Suppose I were to just stay here with you", the Voice's classic tone said later, "Suppose I never bothered others again, nor stalked the night, nor exchanged anything or made any deals..."
"Have you not collecting to do?".
The Voice went to reply, but for the first time in history, was politely interrupted.
"Excuse me for stating, but in all the stories, in all the books and the unwritten legends... you are rather important. You are feared so much as you are necassary, or something along those lines. If I were to grant you to sit beside me forever, mourning upon my loved one whom you did not even know, I would not, in some twisted and strange way, be doing the earth any favours".
"But I'd be doing you a favour", It said rather simply.
"But you do not grant favours, you only exchange them. And any way, I never asked for any company tonight, I was quite happy to be sat upon this heap alone. Thank you".
"It is only a dog you know...".
"I beg your pardon?".
"No... no, I didn't mean that either, I know it's a human. I apologise. That was uncalled for". The Voice began to wring it's hands again, referring it's glance to the mound and the stone. "I suppose we could carry on arguing though? For quite some time?".
"You really dislike your job, do you not?", the girl asked the Voice, pushing her feet comfortably into the disturbed earth.
"Yes. Quite.", Came the Voice.

~

Unedited.

Magic Men.

Written around two and half years ago. And 'saved'.
It may as well be fiction, for I remember so little of any of it, that it couldn't have truly happened.


~
I crossed through the festival aftermath,
Queen's Square a massacre of litter and lights.
I ran my thoughts across what may have been there when the goers were festive.
Selling hot, spiced foods,
Knitwear and balloon cartoon characters.
Strong scents of roasted nuts and foreign cheeses,
Children screaming and people laughing,
A hum beneath them wavering from a guitar and a long-haired man on a large stage.

Just weeks before I'd sat on a bench in the centre of this then empty park,
Not once, though having seen in, believing it could hold so much and so many.

I walked, paced if you will, gracefully and slowly.
My own stride in a silk skirt,
Those around me in reflective jackets de-erecting the skeleton that was left of the stage.
All that was left of the stalls, now just white, flapping tents,
Stood like a dozen crime scenes.
Everything doused in a soft, orange, artificial glow
- One that outdid the natural Victorian streetlamps still dotted in their regular places.
The smell was damp now, as I passed a truck with many-a-cloth hanging from it's back,
And the laughter and screams were replaced by the sounds of those trucks reversing and a woman shouting across to a man, asking when Mark would return. A faint smell of boxed pizzas passed me as I did, her.

The evening before me held a glance into what it was.
I passed by, my face strictly forward, my step a side-step to dodge many prams, hippies and tourists.
But just one thing stood out to me, from all those faces, places, scents and the guy holding what must have been a thousand helium balloons above him, looking solemn.
As I came to the end of the park and the beginning of the centre, the flurry of people just seemed to rush by me, as I heard the strumming of a guitar. My eyes picked up grey and black, thick pinstripe, sat on a bench to my right. A crumpled guitar case sat merrily in the path and a foot tapped to the tune he played.
A black, tailored jacket held onto an acoustic guitar and a-top it a smartly distressed mess of shocking blonde hair was looking upward.
His voice broke into song just as I reached him, and he looked up with silver eyes, one of which winked himself into a smile within a lyric.
I can't even remember the lyric he sang.
Let alone the tune he played.
But his one sided grin and melodic voice ring silently in my head somewhere.
As memorably as it needed to be.
We both stood happily out from the crowd of tourists, locals and festival goers, and some how matched. Went together.

People passing at the same time must have thought we were supposed to meet, there and then, that perhaps (and in here, just perhaps) that we were made for eachother.
My hair as black as crows, spread out and back-brushed as the wings, my skin an olive-milk; trailing a leopard print trench coat, open like a cape. Beneath, a faded dress, doused in splashes of blended purple and white, adorned in cherubs. My legs slimmed to their tone in black, and checked shoes. My large, almost black eyes turned to where there was silver.
They returned the glance, in their pale face, paler still for the silver blonde hair quaffed comfortably upon that slim yet squared face. Those slim white arms pushed into a fitted black suit jacket, the legs could be even paler and covered slim-line-tonic in deep grey and black pinstripe. Heavy boots that could have been Docs smartly shined to each tap of the guitar he played with fine-tuned hands.

Magic Men.
They seem to come from festivals,
From the centre, by the fountains.
There's usually music and it's always dusk or beyond.

They seem to show you card tricks on the grass, spy the fascination ringing in your eyes and tell you of the beautiful places you just had to see. Places that he just knows you will love.
They'll take you only that night though, to the end of a long slab of concrete lying in the dock waters, perfectly timed to when they may show you the gold rippling line reflecting from the setting sun and the two ducks that cut into it, and cross by.

Parting Gestures.

The last promise, brought with it such hope.
The sweetest surprise only half wrapped,
A gift of wine in a cheap paper bag.

It was the dreary corner of the city centre, the looming, boarded doorway where you would expect to see only urine and take-away wrappers. I had been kicking along an old plastic bottle, partially burned at the tip (though of course, not by I), singing quietly a sweet, if not fickle, rendition of Frank Sinatra's Coffee Song. A slight clearing of the throat took my attention, for not many were around at this hour.
"Have you a particular place you were going?".
Her voice had a light tone, as if she had not long taken a sip of a soothing cup of tea. Her appearance suggested the opposite, a beanie hat slouched to one side over the dank drabs of dark hair hanging loosely upon an unidentifiable band shirt. I did not see her at first, for so consumed was her figure by the lightless doorway that i had assumed the voice had come from behind me.
"I suppose not", came an unexpectedly natural reply on my part.
It was then that I witnessed the inhalation of a cigarette, the tip illuminating gently the soft curve of her chin, thus bringing the rest of her into better focus. I was no longer walking, and the plastic bottle slowly span to a complete still.


She had pulled herself up onto the wall of King's Park, I had placed myself casually against said wall, between her and a scatter of shattered green glass. I watched it's slight reflections of the night as she smoked another cigarette. I asked her the point in such a habit, to which she replied simply 'Women's things'.
The lingering smell of smoke drew across our urban sky, and not a star shone there, so heavily coated in the dull orange street lights as we were.
"You see, it's only the people like us that will dwell in such an awful sort'a place like this at this hour", a distant siren laced the horizon of her words, "We may have a place to go. But its not the place we want to go to".
Not once do i recall her looking at me. She just seemed to speak, and lead. It were as though she had found her audience for the evening, her disciple of whom she could relay her stories and teachings to, and it was simply my job to take my seat, withdraw my pen and log my notes.
I did not learn very much that night, I took nothing away from the experience. But unlike any other situation I have encountered since, I took with me the experience itself. The night simply had an impact, it coated me with a layer defineable by others. I was a marked person. A person of her teaching.
She said;
"And so what if we lay in the streets at night? And what of it, if I choose to steal my food? And I do choose to. There is a dew so early in the morning, a sweet glistening dew, it's as though this entire, horrid bloody park is scattered with diamonds (here she gestured her arm to King's Park behind us, with its torn trees, its burnt patches in the grass, litter in various corners and tramp resting in a sleeping bag). The small gift of the night.
So limited are these jewels that with the hour of sunrise they are gone. And I wish only to view them, I will not steal that so plentifully given. That sort of thing just needs to be seen. The night gives you that ability."
Morning must soon have been approaching, I knew not only due to the cool breeze that swept itself across the bare of my hands and face, but from the way in which she stirred ever so slightly. The gleam of her eyes from between those drabs of hair, reflecting the orange of the lamp lights, the damp of the paving slabs.
"You probably won't see me again. I will come with the night, and leave with the morning, only to lay myself in another area by the next dusk. I never look back, I never go back. I want to see and experience all that the night has seen and experienced. For laying in its beauty warms me, it warms me bones and it puts a glittering hope into eyes that did not see enough in early life. ".
Some time passed without word after this, she sighed once or twice (though this could have been the breeze or perhaps a bus' breaks some where a couple of blocks over) and a car skidded nearby.
"What would you roam, if you took your choice?" she asked.
I pondered for a moment, but that moment mostly consisted of my believing I had been waiting for this question all my life; "Dreams".
"You'd roam dreams?"

Her leaving had much less impact that her 'appearing'. She had begun to kick her heel against the wall, before slipping down with a gentle thud. She didn't mutter another word, she leant back with a cool, half-smile, raised the palm of her hand in a motionless gesture of 'Good bye' and appeared to look straight through me. This lasted 6 seconds, she turned on her recently bopping heel and began to tread off down the path.
I watched her form sloping off into the moist blur that was my view of the city, her dull colours began to mingle happily with the scenery now enveloping her.
I witnessed her last betrayal to her teaching, I saw the bend of her arm, and the temporary glow that was her inhaling through her cigarette. She had been looking back for some time. And, still, I did not raise my hand in any parting gesture.

The Homeless Man and Chocolate Mike.

The actual air was frozen, I mean it, it was like smoothly gliding through deep sea water, walking to my bus stop after work. Even with the white fur of my scarf sticking to my lips as it enveloped three quarters of my face, my breath still broke through the material in a thick white mist before me.
Nearing two AM bore it's usual nonsense of a typical Saturday night, lairy-ness and lack of clothing. Work had been unkind this evening, as had most of those I had worked with, and I was more than anxious to be arriving home to a warm bed and two snuggling cats.
I sidestepped those too drunk to realise their staggering, and shivered inwardly at the women still donning Primark mini's when actual snow was visible on the cars around us (Snow that had been defaced with rude markings by said drunkards). One women passing by me split hands with her boyfriend on the road, singing about a Microphone with a derranged look on her face, she reached out to grab the 4ft black stemmed, white material rose I was clutching.
I slanted out of her grip and that moment was forever lost to her.
The gift to my loosely termed wife, for her most recent birthday, safe still, and the bus stop nearing sight.
And amidst all the trend setters, cold women and drunken speech, a small heap stood out to me.
A man, legs curled to his chest, an old withered looking winters hat cupping his head in a rejecting way, sat quietly in the doorway of a bank. Later to be described as ironic.
He didn't openly ask for change, like any other homeless man may (in a thick scottish accent, perhaps), but he sat, with kind eyes and a sad mouth. His attire, all in the dark of 2am, seemed rather colourless. Dark blues, dark greys, not necasarily black but they all blurred into just that. And yet his eyes, downward they were, but they seemed so blue. Even in the light I was given to view him.
I imagined he was an attractive man, should he be allowed a suit, a good scrub and a clean shave. I feared his eyes were frozen, so cold was this night. I passed him by slowly, his eyes went up on me for a moment, a moment in which I broke my own gaze, but smiled with a mouth revealed to the cold for his sake, and then I stopped.
I gripped at my belongings, and I gazed toward my bus stop. I looked back, but he was out of sight in that curved doorway, only his small silver tray with around three little coins within sat feebly in my view. I had already passed, I did not have to go back, my warm bus already sat at it's stop, waiting to ferry me home with a small charge of having to sit amongst said drunken 2am people and the smell of subway sandwiches.

His eyes glanced upward to me as I stood before him, I noticed only now that he had a rucksack beside him, propping up against him safely. His poessessions?
"Could you spare any change?" He barely spoke the words, but his voice was dully calm, sweetly calm. If he had a hot drink in him, he would be a well spoken man, a man to which a conversation with would be wonderful, whether he had much to say or not.
"I don't have any change" I lied, "But, I'd like you to have this"
My voice didn't sound like my own, just as it never usually does when I lie, but I felt him having my rose was much more important, and whilst I lie here writing with the urge of buying the man a suit, and a coffee or a cookie from subway, handing him the 4ft, black stemmed, white material rose warms me.
His eyes did not light up, but the kindness from them could barely thank me, and I'm not even sure he did, but his smile (to which I cannot remember if teeth were missing, or if my memory is biased) gives me more than I needed, and I barely said another word before leaving.
I never look back, I only saw him tuck the large stemmed rose into the side of his rucksack, and hope to the festive seasons spirit, that he does not sell the rose for alcohol, or trade it in for a drugs.


The bus held a usual scent of subway and takeaway pizza, although it being slightly earlier than the buses I would usually board, the crowd was less and the people at their appropriate limit for alcohol, unlike the 3am bus, of which would be filled, not doubt, with alcohol poisoning.
A man was told by my usual driver that it was much more his worth than getting a taxi all the way back, and he approached us sat toward the rear of the bus with a 'Hello' to where we were all headed, marking the name of destination, ironically, as 'sunny'. He sat before me, the seats slightly lower than my own, sideways, so he was comfortably in talking range with me. He attempted conversation with most, and I smiled at him, though secretly annoyed i may not be able to peacefully listen to my music on the way home as i normally would.

But he turned out to be a chocolate man. A chocolate man with a home in tenerefe, who used to drive mini cabs in London. He had a breaking Irish accent, and the ability to speak to almost any one and still have a genuine word to say.
He was happily sad that converstaion with modern dayers was broken if not dull, and every one seemed miserable. We shared our feeling, it seemed, and it was unusual for us both to actually find some one to speak to on the bus.

Chocolate Mike used to reguarly ferry the singer of the Pogues from his sisters home to the airport, way back when, and spoke of his wife not believing his knowing of a radio DJ, until said DJ bought them a bottle of champagne in a resturant. On ice of course. Only the best for the blue eyed Chocolate Man.
Chocolate Man gave in his slightly drunken, but perfectly tipsy worry, that all young people complain of being tired, when he himself travels out of the country at least six times a year, and can get by just fine on four hours sleep, when his wife (who doesnt' always accompany him abroad) needs at least 8 it would seem.
''My my...'' he said, ''If only I were five years younger!''
Chocolate Mike actually asked me about me, and yet spoke much of himself.
The journey was not long, but Chocolate Mike gave real conversation a delicious touch to what was almost a bad end to a night at work.
''You are so young!'' he exclaimed, although, for once, he did not mean it in a bad way. He was not judging me, nor making any assumptions. For once, to an older person, it was genuinely okay for me to be young.


~ These were delicious ramblings, all of true events and happenings that took place just tonight. SheBlinks tells no lies and means no harm should any thing mentioned relate to your own life or personal gains, and you should think yourself proud if you met The Homeless Man and Chocolate Mike.

A small piece based on an Apocolyptic Zombie dream I had last night.
As it was written, as of yet, no changes.


The sun was shining in the hazy, refreshing way that it only could in the winter as I left the pub that day. And I do have to admit, I felt as if leaving The Kings Horse pub was to be my mistake of the day, for it had been good to me the two years I had worked there, even if most fellow staff hadn't been. It had kept me warm in the winter, and equally as warm in the summer, introduced me to many life friends and needed aquaintances, and told me stories of the likes I never would have dreamt of knowing. I lacked tan from missing sunlight due to it's hours, and my eyes were now permnantly sensitive to sunlight.
The decision wasn't there. I had to simply leave, a life was some how still on the outside, and from a general acknowledgement of life skill, I had to move on. I couldn't hide in a pub forever, especially not The Kings Horse, my Love/Hate and over again boozer.
The cobbled pathway down the hill was quiet, I wasn't sure what time of day it was, but it was certainly very early. It was a picturesque day, damp still lining areas of the road, a bitterly cool bright sun illuminating a glare to which i winced. I kept up my limp, and thought ironically of never having another 'lock-in' again, but my face showed no expression, and i tilted my head.
I could hear a mumbling of people, as i slumped down the Victorian Steps that lead to the main road, and I knew it had begun. They were clear as day, only I was not sure if they were close, and whilst I was nervous, I had an genuine comforting feeling that this was how it was now.
The usual sound of traffic was simply not there, not a whisper of a cars breaks let alone acceleration at a traffic light. The murmurs continued, and at the steps end a few stragglers of early morning people slid by. I couldn't see any faces, the suns glare aided me in making no eye contact.
I crossed, squinting, aware that had I been able to take them in, some of these people were probably just like me.

A dull mist led upon the river that ran through the City, travelled quietly along side me as I walked, dragging my foot. Tendrils of it began to run up the walls before softly cascading back down into themselves again, and seagulls croaking could be heard between the surrounding murmurs.
Somewhere a bin crashed to the ground and a loud murmur slowly faded out. I made no response as stragglers passed me.

I turned to follow the girl in the red hooded jumper, i partially regret that decision. She was being dragged along by a small dog, stumbling also, but she had a bag. I was aware she was like me, and I was going no where in particular.
"You're not very good at this, are you" she said in a low, achey tone, as if she hadn't spoken since she had woken up.
The door to the flats gave a quiet thud as it closed, but was over taken by the sound of running outside, and a small crash, and so went unheard by the stragglers. We creaked up the stairs, a window up high let in the hazed sunlight, a wave of dust surrounding us like glitter.
"It's all we have, here" She spoke again, as she turned to me at the top of the stairs, inserting a key and beckoning me in. Her dog took the invite and ran inside accordingly. He was the only one acting normal.
Silence went on in her flat, the murmurs outside, again all that was there. It was bright, and airy, and I'm sure had i cared to look, the view from here of the river was probably lovely. We sat in her hallway, doors on most sides of us, it was slightly cluttered with objects I didn't care to take in, and the dog fussed me.
"We'll just get by" she smiled seriously. "I'll sort you something to eat. Have you come from others?"
I shook my head, although there were a couple of us left at the pub, I recalled locking the cellar and making my decision to leave.
"Well that's just better I suppose, more simplistic, the less to worry about". We were sat on the floor, and she was going through the bag she had had on her person outside.
She began to speak, of what i believe was about a room mate of hers, whom I'm not sure was living here any more, for whatever reason. My eyes went to the window, a reflection of light from the river aided the sound of some one running as a blur went through it. I shivered.
"Do you want to stay?" My eyes flicked back to the girl, she had a look of innocence now, as if she hadn't had company for a while and was beginning to feel it.
"Tell me about you're flat mate" I asked quietly with a smile. And as she spoke I sensed a movement behind her. She didn't watch me as she spoke, a newly released fear riding over her that I failed to pick up on too strongly. Two doors behind her were propped open, both seemed to have obstructions near the door, that seemed to be a bed and a cot.
The movement again, this time i focused my eyes beyond the girl.
Wrapped in a duvet, a rounded, flesh like shape rolled back slightly. The light coming in from behind it made it difficult to see the detail of the sphere, as did the blue rug around it.
And then it slid open. As it did, the one in the room next door moved also. Smaller, and lower in the cot, but it too looked at me.
"I made the right choice, being here alone... There were several occasions where she left the door open..." the girl went on.
I felt as though I could hear it, the sound of the sphere through the door looking at me. It's flesh fell bacward, and the pupil of the eye adjusted, and I was aware it could see me much more clearly than I could it.
"You've seen?" She suddenly asked with a pale blunt voice. "They came not long after those did.." She looked to the window again. She had no indication that she feared me knowing what she had here. Her dark eyes were as colourless as they had been in the street.
She was good, good out there and in here, she had forgotten what expression could be all together.

Twelve Pounds and life would go on, I visited my father not long later and continued to be irrational in my choosing. I had always enjoyed the sea, and a good friend of mine now lived that way. In a secluded area of the seaside by the rocks, I hired a small boat, and awaited the tide to come in and she and I spoke. There were men on the beach, and none were acting. They did not ask for money, although hiring the boats was most certainly their old business.
Since then, the sea has shon silver.

Paths crossing are as little as the skys opening.
I suppose their both rather big deals to small people.
I turned myself over in a coated bed, warm to the sound of clatter on my window.
I wretched as it became courageous floods smashing into the glass,
attempting an entrance.
I held the duvet over my ears and stared at the door before me.
It was much too far to run to.
And so I glared, the water would see me as i had left my curtain partially open.

My dreams held something i could run in.
As i peered up from work, the air was certainly open, though dark.
Grey through a purple black, i could sigh freely.
A creature approached us as we worked, faces in places you wouldn't believe,
a rigid, rotten coloured body with bones aparent yet muscle plasticly shining.
His glazed yellowing eyes darted like cats and we humans ran.
We ran into caves, hid in each shadowing,
i only hoped i ran into these christ-like-crypts with someone i wouldn't mind sharing time with.

We'd made it through a door, even though out in the open.
The epidemic seemed to be over for now, a safe spot, a moment of clarity.
We worked out beneath a huge tree trunk, that was my work, the locks.
A spiralled, slimey (Though not by touch) cylinder was my key.
My boss explained that should there be a problem with the pub, i might be locked in if i cannot work this key correctly.
I glanced down at the alien shape in my hand, then around at the damp oak that was the inside of the large tree trunk that i called 'work'.
I would not like to be stuck in here.
Just then, up the rolling black grass, the black skys shuddered and a door made no sound.
We all looked up, terror in our eyes, at the wall that blended in with the sky.
The door threw open, and the creatures, many more of them now began to file in, looking around and down the hill.

We picked up, ran for our lives, a gate in the wall was the one i had just practised to lock...
And it took a long time, so a senior of my work unlocked the hinges and i threw myself through, followed by my colleagues.
Up a steap, rolling hill, greener than before, it was slim like a garden...
As I glanced back all my colleagues were shooting through the gate aswell, like sperm on route to the egg.
I turned for no more than a second and the creatures had entered the gate.
I'd travelled barely at all when i realised no one was running with me, and on a quick inspection, the mere presence of the creatures had slumped all my work friends into sat-up heaps upon the floor. They were asleep.
I was the only one.
Refusing to sleep, i made way behind a shed, and hooked my hands onto a wooden fence that was far too high for me.

My resistance was obvious, and somehow, I managed to haul myself over and throw myself to the ground of a homely garden on the other side.
Trimmed grass, swingsets, a matching shed and balls littered across the garden. I could sense a patio and a barbeque behind me, as well as a looming house.


If i lie here, they won't find me...






And i don't have to sleep.

I'd get on the coach tomorrow.
Had i not a day to earn the money i don't have coming along.
I didn't speak to any one other than her for around 36 hours, so come the second 1am my words withered around my lips, never falling.
Unfortunately not being so wound up in my head
Is aiding me to leave the myths behind.
I got up from the chair, and led upon the floor.
The ceiling lit from the left hand side of the pale room as usual,
seagulls circling the night outside.
One star, in a clearing. Cloudless, was the sky.
I thought i saw a dash or two. And completely forgot about the rain in the day.

Crept in through the bus window,
as if treading through cold waves.
The sun wiping over the prominent memory of the seaside,
giving it a hazed reflection in a car window.
The ocean shon grey-green,
and delved into every orifice of the lucky pebbles.



I keep thinking what might happen if I saw your face at my door,
Smiling nervously in the sunshine.
Knowing that night might only bring comfortably dark conversation,
over by the park and where the stars hid behind light pollution.


How long may i spend writing one thing to them?
Irony held out ten fold.
All the train stations were far too recogniseable,
and i believe they began to get used to my bones on the platform.

Thinking freely into music filled ears,
stepping in a rythm those around me could clearly see.
Diamond dogs and a zebra print suitcase.
Influenced beyond the seaside, down by the boats.



My life then played out like lights at night,
and each day time step was taken like one in the dark,
suggestively glancing for that tree stump in the alley,
letting you lead, of course not by choice.


I was reminded of Whitam, yet another station.

The dull silence only corrupted by the constant flicking of plastic,

of the digital clock counting seconds on the platform.

My mind ached again in irony and footsteps came to a slow halt beside me.

For once i couldn't remember where i was going, as I declined a man a lighter,

And avoided small talk.

I can't stand seeing her lie there.