Shifting Sands

Tears had formed, and as he closed his eyes tight, the pool burst free and ran down his cheeks like a tram track. The newspaper lay folded upon his lap. On its front page an image of a candy-striped deckchair was prominent, and italicised text accompanied:

“It is time we eliminated the reminder of our cloth-cap heritage. Move forward with the times, eliminate our industrial past. We have a master plan for the rejuvenation of the town. We began two months ago with the dilapidated seafront.”

But this is my home, he thought, this town has been my life.

On the number twelve bus, Bill watched his neighbourhood pass through the window. His head was pressed against the glass like a small child. He absorbed the impact of each rise and fall of the suburbs. What he saw was different from when he was young, when both he and the town were in their heyday. In truth, Bill’s neighbourhood had died many years previous; this was now just the place he lived.

The seafront was quiet in comparison to when he last visited. He approached the stretch of beach, next to the team staton, where the deck chairs were hired out. He paid his money then lowered himself into the candy-striped deck chair. He reached into his pocket to withdraw the small scrap of this morning’s headline.  Looking down he re-read the article and again a tear formed in his eye. Taking a pristine white handkerchief from his hip pocket, he slipped it beneath his glasses lens and vigorously rubbed the socket of his right eye until it turned red.

In 1950 he was handsome and suave.  He had worked most of the bars, clubs and cabaret establishments along the front; it was his life, his income and was how he met his wife. A host with a handful of one-liners, he supplemented his income calling bingo for the septuagenarians in the Conservative Club hall.  Ethel, in contrast, was a class act. She was beautiful; she glowed. He would stand in front of audiences at “The Pear Club”, and with microphone in hand he would announce her onto the stage. She’d twirl to the centre of stage in her golden ball gown with incredible grace; transfixed, he would watch as she spun her honeyed web around him.

This is our home, he’d think, this is our life.

In 2015 they had been sat on the seafront, a candy-striped deck chair each, both looking every wrinkle their age. It was one of the hottest days of the year, and the beach teemed with chalky sun worshippers. Ethel wanted ice cream, so he joined a long line of pasty tourists for what felt like a lifetime. When he returned with the treat she was gone.  He took a lick of his ice cream, but it tasted bitter, so he became angry he’d spent the final minutes of her life, queuing for this.

Now it was twelve months later. To his right, a shop front was being ripped apart and refitted, just as the store next door was being boarded up and estate agent signs placed on the façade. Directly in front of him was an old run-down building.  Rusted scaffolding had been erected to preserve the remainder of the building. Above the door was a faded sign, it’s lettering faint and indistinct to all but Bill: “The Pear Club”.

He began crying and the tears blurred his vision; the scaffolding melted away and the club was once again pristine and gleaming. Posters proclaimed acts of vibrant music and enchanting dance, of unique cabaret and a thousand one-liners.  There was a buzz about the venue and the sound of laughter and applause echoed from within.  Then, a figure appeared at the doorway in a golden ball gown. She lifted her hand and in a wave, cast her web, beckoning him towards her.

This was my home, he thought, this was my life.

 

Her & you & me

What turned the girl from writing ‘cancer do not smoke’ on packets

of fags and spitting up the bitterness of a glass of wine, i’d rather have elderflower or something less tart

to a girl who in the dark

consumes all substances and volatiles capable of altering

reality

searching without noise for the one pill, fix, swig to

obliterate thinking

 

What turned her attention from the blackboard of learning and books cradled with knowledge, discussions on lawns, when summer time yawns hardest and dries

the land yellow

in search instead of darkness, absorbing and contrite not at all with mating call for those who do not fit and wish to slip, hook, line and sinker, down the rabbit warren

yes

this was her hollow, without demand it sprung up a flower of despair, take a petal, eat a stem, share your woe

nobody else could understand what happened from one moment to next, when she exited her life and began to inhale deeply, the mysteries of earth

sucking close to lips every way she could, a hope to find within the harmony of the provoke an easement of kinds

What began the addiction to, getting smashed, blitzed, off her tits, really wrecked, until tables unturned and she grew wings and

fled

to where nobody knew her, she could begin her love affair anew, take this drug, that drug, so many choices, who knew?

What did it matter if this life would last

just once more

she needed to feel only one way

and that was found in

the arms of heroin

and other substances

careful in their caress

to ausage their addicts unrest

What turned her from her former self, what moment, what imbalance, in head or heart? caused an irrevocable depart from all she was, and now, thin and wane, she no longer understands, that once, she did not need, all this to live, to subsist, to feed

she was able to tolerate the world of men

better then before perhaps

a sadness crushed that little part

of hope she had

for now in bliss she is closer than ever

to giving up and letting the intoxicate take her

as far away as she always wanted to be

from those who hurt

and judge

and make bleed

children of time

who grow into

her and you, and me

 

elastic phantasm

collage by Deger Bakir

Kate and I were the only ones on the beach. The rains were over but the sky was still gray and people were afraid to come out. Even the seagulls stayed high and landed in the beach grass out of sight.

I asked Kate to take off her shawl and she walked with it trailing behind her in the wind.

We had walked for over a mile when we came upon what looked like writing in the sand. The letters were too long to read and I tried to pull Kate along as if I hadn’t noticed them. Kate stopped and clapped her hands together. I kept walking but she pulled on my arm.

I was back in a dream I had the night before: I was on a beach, the sand was silver and the waves that crashed on the shore were a grown man’s height. I was staring at a jellyfish that had been dumped on the sand beside me. I had the urge to stomp on it, the way we tortured beached stingrays, fish, and sea urchins when I was a kid. But the jellyfish grew luminous at its core and a kaleidoscope of colors burst like fireworks trapped in a glass jar. This was the jellyfish’s brain, and these creatures were smarter than I was. Smarter than Kate and everyone else. The jellyfish shivered like it was cold and I could swear that it inched closer. I was afraid of what it might take from me.

I thought the dream was over, but now Kate was there, too, and it was real and there would be no waking up safe and sweating and snuggling against Kate.

I heard Kate reading aloud the words dug into the sand: “It’s happening.”

Kate looked at me and laughed. She was never afraid of anything and I knew it would be bad for her in the end. I had to protect her from my dream, from the jellyfish and everything else. I thought I might be able to carry on as if the dream wasn’t absorbing us. Then Kate said, “What’s happening, do you think?”

“What?” I asked.

She pointed to the letters. I forgot myself and looked where she pointed and read the jagged message. “Ah. Fuck,” I said. I felt the sand sinking down around us. I was there beside her. I was somewhere else. The sky was black and the clouds were gone and I dragged a stick along the sand. I was cold and I was sweating. I wrote. I was lost at sea.

Then I felt Kate’s flesh on my flesh. We were moving. She had hooked her arm around me and she was talking again. It was a gray day at the beach. We didn’t walk but we took steps and after a while we left the prophecy behind us. The seagulls flew a little lower and I felt comforted in spite of myself.

I continued to scheme in my mind. In a war like this the only thing we had was subterfuge and surprise.

A collaboration between Gordon Flanders and myself.

Quiet

You’re too comfortable
in silence.

You live in a society
in which
daughters
ask their mothers
for abortions
instead of ponies
and boys are taught
by their
fathers,
the best ways to
beat
a woman.

Give me something
more
than
“Domestic problems
are found all over.”

You’re alive in an era
where starvation
is an issue
that we’ve just
not
been bothered
to solve
and children,
younger than your firstborn,
are passing bullets
instead of notes.

Tell me now
how you’ve “liked”
that relief fund
you saw on Facebook
the other day.

You go through every moment,
an over-oiled cog
in the machine.

You’re living.
You’re alive.

Right?

Tell me that you are
and I’ll show you
the dead that still bellow.

Content / Content

Ashley Lily Scarlett 2016

Alienation

The alienation within you is not alien at all, it’s the most human reaction to coping with your emotional needs… in a roundabout fashion.

~vintage and modern magazines, card paper, handcut

Tryst

1

You can hardly contain a smile when he announces he will be working away for the next two nights. Sorry baby, he coos. A mental sweep of the upcoming family calendar reveals the kids are on a sleepover tonight. The smile becomes a Cheshire grin. This nugget of information is dropped, casual, into a text  to “D”. The phone becomes something of fixation for you, waiting for him to reply. Later, you stomp around the house shouting at the kids, furious at the cunt for not leaping at this golden opportunity. Fuck him; no longer “D”, he is now know as “X”. Still livid, you cold-kiss your husband as he leaves for the airport that evening.

2

You have been buzzing all morning, gliding across the kitchen as you prepare breakfast. “D” has booked a room in the Plaza Hotel for tonight. You were never in any doubt he would come good. You drop off the kids at their friends house and “The Bitch” greets you at the door. She of perfect postcard house, and perfect striped lawn, and perfect doting husband, and perfect gleaming teeth; the kind you’d love to punch down her perfect fucking throat. Today, you have one over on her, hoping beyond hope that she can see in your burning eyes that you are going to get fucked-stupid tonight. You drive home, squirming in your seat, the heat between your legs building as your thoughts drift to a near future.

3

You think about how desired you feel when “D” speaks, when he talks about how much he wants you. This is different from your husband, with his snatches of mumbled grunts as he leaves for work. You think about how you shiver as “D” wet-kisses his way down your spine, fingertips grazing over your arching ribs. This is different from your husband, with his rolling over after he has come in your mouth, too tired to go down on you after his busy day at work. You think about the way “D” listens and reacts to your body, to your gutteral sounds, contorting and entwining you into ever more pleasurable positions. This is different from your husband, where he heaves away on top, or behind, or under; the uniform thrusting of his member, pushing forward yet becoming more distant with each stroke.

4

You recall it wasn’t always like that. The wedding was the most memorable day of your short life, surpassed by birthing of your girls. You both got lost somewhere along the path, took different directions at some unseen junction. A relationship grown apart like many a clichéd twentieth century breakdown. You think about your family, and how you are tethered by the expectation of social conformity. The expectation of purity and perfection, the facade of mother and wife on your outer defensive carapace, rampant desire burning and curtailed within. One night is not worth losing all that, is it? Conflicted, you reach for your phone and tap out a text, cancelling tonight’s irresponsible tryst

5

…

6

You are home, luxuriating in the morning afterglow. Your left hand caresses your breast, pulling at an already erect nipple. With your right hand you run a fingertip tip across your slick slit, mimicking his tongue from hours earlier. Your clit is engorged, eliciting a murmur from your lips as you discover its sensitivity. Your hand becomes a blur as you finger-fuck your pussy, hard, imagining his powerful, thick cock filling you. Breathless, you collapse back full of memories and hopes of the future, and sleep.

7

You awake to the trill of the door bell. You smile at “Bitch Face” and hope she cannot see in your eyes the embers of the fiery whore you became. She of perfect house, and perfect lawn, and perfect doting husband, and perfect teeth; you would swap places in a heartbeat. Snapped back to reality, you ruffle the kids hair as they sprint past you to the kitchen. You metamorphose into Mother, no longer the voracious lover. You feel the guilt grow through the day, scouring clean the memories of your dirty passion.

8

Husband arrives home with his briefcase. He ruffles the kids hair and laughs with them. He kisses you on the cheek with lips of ice. Tonight we should fuck, he suggests with the sensuality of a brick. He leaves to shower away his own lovers scent. You and he were happy once, maybe it could be so again. Wipe away the tears from the cheeks he often bruises. You owe it to your children to put aside thoughts of your own happiness. Give in to your place in the world, content yourself in trying to make acceptable this life you have created for yourself.

9

Why dream?

10

Repeat, ad infinitum.

 

 

BED-SIT

Image by Christine Renney

Following the separation, my very existence seemed to implode, and I had been forced to move into this tiny bed-sit and, for almost six months, I have survived its squalor. I quickly established a routine, determined that my life would at least have the veneer of normality and I hadn’t realised until now just how regimented my life has become.

At night, as I lay in my bed, I listen to the house, the walls closing in around me. I need to kick back and, when I do, discipline will be the key. I share the house with four students and when I leave for work in the mornings they are still asleep. In the evening when I return the house is heaving, a veritable hive.
After pushing through the throng to my room and as I prepare my meal I listen to their laughter, to their music. Occasionally a door is flung open and greetings ring from across the hall. The directness and the clarity always causes me to shudder. But then the door will close and I am able to breath again.
When I have eaten my meal and completed my nightly chores I watch television. I favour the American crime shows and am enthralled by the startling cityscapes and computer graphics. I am easily caught up in the analytical pursuit by the obligatory twosome and their investigative team as they trammel doggedly against the deadline in order to free the truth from the tangled web of little lives.

Summer has reared its head and the party has moved outside. I can now close the door and muffle their voices. I lay on my bed, resisting the urge to rise and glance out at the languorous scene below my window; students sprawled on blankets spread across the patchy lawn.
The air is thin, the scorching sun has drawn most of the moisture out of it and has also taken much of their laughter. To hoot and holler requires too much energy. Their conversation now is consistent, a comfortable murmur. I can tune in and listen or not.
I am reminded of home, of my old home; Clara, in the kitchen, on a Sunday morning listening to Radio 4. Slumped on the sofa with a book I would realise that I had been staring blankly at the pages, not reading but listening, caught up in the broadcast.

An enquiring female voice rises in the still and lifeless air.
‘But what does he do up there in his room for so long?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know,’ after a lengthy pause someone replies. I can hear them shuffling on the blankets, attempting to settle, to get more comfortable on the baked earth.
‘He seems okay. Maybe we should ask him down for a drink sometime, what do you think?’
I roll over and, pressing my face into the pillow, I wait. I can’t be sure if anyone bothers to respond. I try not to hear. I am not sure how long I lay like this but at last I realise the house is now deathly quiet and it has an abandoned air. I cross to the window and they are gone.
In the bathroom I turn on the taps and watch the water spool in the tub and drain away and I wait until it runs cold. In the kitchen, although it isn’t yet dark, I switch on the light. A moth flutters noisily as the fluorescent tube stutters and then bursts into life. The linoleum is split and the pattern and colours are almost worn away.

this ends badly

art by monika kozak

I fell in love with her thick eyelashes and the dark shadows under her eyes.

‘I don’t sleep,’ she said. ‘I haven’t since I left uni. My body forgot how to do it.’

I said it was impossible to forget how to sleep, and I sounded arrogant because I was terrified that she would excuse herself, say she needed a drink, and not return. She laughed, and I noticed there were shadows in her eyes too.

That first night, we didn’t make love. She floated around my single bedroom flat peering into my refrigerator, my closet, my medicine cabinet. I didn’t know what she was looking for. What are you looking for? I asked.

‘You,’ she replied.

When she found out I was poet, she asked me to read her my poems, and when I said I was shy, she lay on the sofa with a cushion on her face and said she wouldn’t come out until I relented. I read her a dozen, and her sharp intake of breath told me she liked them, though she never said a word.

She didn’t move in, she just never left. And most nights, she slept deeply.

Two months later, I found her standing in the shower, shivering violently. Her nails were blue. I wrapped her in a towel and pulled her into bed. I rubbed her skin and kissed her all over. She was limp and didn’t speak for the rest of the morning.

By evening, I accused her of playing games because I knew this was something serious and I wasn’t ready yet for the world to intrude. When she spoke, I almost clawed her face. She said a man was waiting for her back home.

She stayed another week and there were silences where we used to laugh. We drank to forget that we were soul mates on death row. When we made love, I was rough. I bit her nipple and the inside of her thigh.

She left on a Tuesday while I was out. I told people whom she’d met that she died.

Barstool Philosopher

I go out
to see a woman
about a drink
and she kisses my eyes
while acceding
to pouring it down
my throat.

Some people seek the cafes
to write –
it’s too quiet.
I need spilt drinks
and broken glass;
belligerent drinks
and volumes
far too loud.

I need insults
to injuries
and salt
on the wounds.
Writing is never done
content.

The patrons screech
and so the bar
screeches louder –
a never ending competition
of volume-based
machismo.

I take after Bukowski
and order a beer,
eschewing the gin and tonic.

It’s simpler.
They serve it faster.