poetry

T{he} (bast{ar}d) ga{me} of l[if]e

If he be me, then the game of life

is truly a horrendous game.

And so they pepper your perceptions

with nasty connections to show you

how untruthful and fraudu-

lently bent out of shape your conclusions

really are.

 

And from an invasion to aliens to clones

dropped casually as incidence, all with the

intention of

making fat laughing-stock of the he who be me;

and the fact that even dearly beloved offspring

are cruelly playing games of the mind

without a second’s consideration

leads him to suggest you really are all bastards.

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short short story

“… why she was unable to break free …”

 

She’d had a long and fairly variegated history of mental ill-health: a patchwork of reds and spots of polka dot yellows which defined her quite clearly in the attentive eyes of the world.

On a previous occasion or two, she’d tried to break everything: not just break herself free of the nightmare of emotions but break almost everything around her.  And this explained exactly – and she could understand it herself – why everyone had (wrongly, in her mind) come to the conclusion she was mad.

And she clearly wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.  But the implications of not doing so were tremendously hurtful to take on.  Because she knew, like no other, that one of the main ticks to be boxed – by psychiatric manual in the condition she’d been assigned – was that of latently, even blatantly, wanting to promiscuously break away from the safety, comfort and goodness of a “life at home”.

And this was even the case when such a home was “safer”, “more comfortable” and “less bad” than the world you’d objectively find outside – although from her (admittedly) subjective point of view, it was a world where less bad meant living death, where comfortable meant a sofa and TV dinner not a passionate embrace, and where safety implied the house wouldn’t go up in damn fool flames – never, however, that you’d feel at one with your people and surroundings.

So there in a nut[ty]shell was the reason why she was totally unprepared to attempt ever again to break free.  If she didn’t, she might objectively fall very ill again; on the other hand if she did, they would more than likely, even as quite incorrectly, claim – once again –  the surreal assumption that because she wanted more of life, she was ill.

A Catch-22 if there ever was one, dear friends.  Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.  Who said there wasn’t a heaven on earth?  After all, hell existed in tandem with the former – and hell there did exist most definitely.

 

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short short story

The importance of burning bridges

She had been beaten until she’d wept for days – so many days she’d totally lost her memory of the times it didn’t happen: when or before that awful now.

And then he’d drunken bottles of whisky before breathing her body sorry – a breathing which left a dreadful smell she quickly learnt to fear as soon as it began to drift up the stairs he would so proudly show off to the neighbours: though, of course, when they were there he never touched her fragile frame.

And then again he would burn into her delicate white skin tiny secretive weals with fag ends he’d gladly smoked and dressed her mentally down with, until she felt like a different kind of fag must have felt in the jolly old privileged school which the fag end-burner had – in his time – so successfully boarded at.

And in the end the violence meant very little.  It meant so little because she knew nothing else.

And when you know nothing but the violence others commit, in truth it’s time to quit.

And that’s the importance of burning bridges: I mean, here, to places you just know you never wish to return …

And violence is a place, you know.

A place you never want to know.

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