joi, 27 mai 2010
but i am the same
i walk down
the road smelling of the world
yet the smell of home has long been lost
surrounded by you all
i am alone
as you walk against me down the road
all in sync
and i’m the filth-stain
on a fresh painted wall
and i stay alone
sitting outside my window
ten stories high
as night copulates with dawn
absorbing the world as it changes
i would cry
but i won’t
so i just smoke my fag
and drink my coffee
i slip and i fall
ten stories down
i break my legs
longing to feel anything
...yet not even pain
i start crawling back
to what was once familiar
crawling with my arms
but they erode
leaving a trail of blood
then they are no more
so i crawl on my belly
and still not even pain
and my stomach erodes
and i erode
‘till i am no more
just the trail of blood
i left behind
but it quickly fades
and my passing is unmarked
forgotten and useless
i am no more
there is no new start
the chains of what was
tie me down
so i am where i was
i am no more once again
duminică, 23 mai 2010
It had been snowing for twenty-one hours and thirteen minutes as Chris limps slowly back through the desolate village, thinking about the devastation in his life.
Chris is a clockmaker.
Evening does not ‘creep in’ during winter.
The phrase ‘darkness falls’ is not just a metaphor, at least not in a small village in the Carpathians, where not even electricity has been introduced.
Despite the clear sky, the darkness closes in, like a wall, for the moon is not yet up.
A full Moon will shine tonight.
There is nobody on the street.
As Chris drags his foot through the fresh, crunchy snow, he counts every one of his steps. He always had the need to measure time, and now he curses himself for forgetting his pocket-watch at home; an old relic inherited from his father, who got it from his father, all of them clockmakers. There is a safety in counting time, a sense of control. And of all nights it is on this one that he lacks that feeling. He quickens his pace.
Dim, yellow lights start flickering in the windows around him. Candles are being lit revealing ghoulish faces with a cadaveric pallor, seemingly floating in the pale light like the ghosts of disembodied heads.
Chris is near his house when a long howl is released somewhere in the woods.
Drops of sweat start dripping down his back as he feels his temperature rising.
A candle is dying on his desk, and the low light reveals hundreds of glazy eyes staring at him. All the clocks he has collected over the years, regardless of shape and size, hang from his wall, and if until now he felt their constant ticking reassuring, now he feels harassed, as if an omen keeps reminding him of the little time he has left. “The black wolf with the white glowing eyes” he mutters without realizing.
His heart is still beating at an agonizing pace.
He checks his daughter’s room.
It is empty.
She is at her grandparent’s, as he had arranged.
He hasn’t got much time.
Suddenly a loud noise crushes the silence.
The grandfather-clock announcing the sixth hour.
He has little time left.
Old folk used to scare little children in the village with the tale of the black wolf with glowing eyes. The man eater who had plagued the villagers for centuries, a pawn of the Devil. People sometimes came to the pub, all pale, mentioning just two eyes glowing in the distance. But wolves rarely came as far as the village, and attacks on humans were even rarer. His wife had been the only case in thirty years. She had been dragged off five years ago, and they had found only blood and scraps of clothing.
Then, a month ago, five years to the day, Chris was chopping some wood one night when a dark, huge figure lunged at him out of the darkness, biting his foot. He swung his axe at it, and the wolf made for a run, looking back only once. Chris still wasn’t sure if in that second the creature’s eyes did glow or if it was the light of the moon.
He didn’t think it was anything else but a lone hungry wolf, but since then he started having cravings. He felt like eating raw meat, still soaking in blood. His temper was quicker, and he had nightmares of tearing people apart…even ripping his daughter to pieces. And last night, after going to sleep, he awoke in the garden howling at the moon.
He has no time.
He cannot risk harming anyone.
It is probably all just in his mind.
But he cannot take that risk.
The ticking of the clock grows ever faster, and so does the rhythm of his heart beat.
A terrible pain hits his chest, and moves to his whole body. His bones and muscles feel as if they are stretching and tearing. He runs for the door, and goes towards the edge of the village, towards the forest. His leg stops limping, his body seems to grow stronger. He moves faster. He can still hear the clocks ticking in his mind.
He feels the urge to kill.
He fights it.
He must press on.
He hears footsteps.
He moves faster.
The steps follow him.
“Papa, where are you go…?” the girl manages to say before she starts screaming.
miercuri, 19 mai 2010
always someplace else
some place distant
i watch myself from that place
like a bad sitcom
i don’t have the remote to change the channel
i must pull the plug
yesterday i drove my bike into a car
it was speeding on the opposite way
flew off my bike and right through the windshield
i could see my parents and friends
sitting on the front seats
they were scared
so i tried not to hurt them
when my head broke the glass
i landed on the backseat
next to a child
and he was me
and he held my hand
and wouldn’t let go
please let go
let me pull the plug
just let go
joi, 13 mai 2010
“Do you think she killed herself? She probably came all the way out here so nobody would find her, right? Chris!”
Chris was staring absently at the partly dressed skeleton, when his friend’s voice woke him. “Probably suicide.” he repeated, “Since last month when we were here.”
“No. Her head’s bashed in. Besides, her skirt is to far from the body. Raped and killed!” He was strangely unaffected by the whole thing. “And she has been here for more than a month. Bones’re all clean. She was probably buried under the roots of the old oak tree, and now that the wind blew it over…” he left the sentence hanging.
“But the windstorm was two weeks ago! Somebody must’ve found her”
“Nobody comes by here! That’s the reason why we’re here!”
They used to smoke weed once every few weeks, by the old oak just outside of town, so nobody could see them together; Chris’ friend was from a well of family, and his parents would have not approved of the friendship, and in a small town like that secrets have short lives. Chris didn’t mind the hiding. The guy was an idiot, but he paid for the dope.
The teenage boy picked up a small object which was laying next tot the corpse. “Look!” Chris recognised the object immediately. He had seen it in old photos. He hoped his companion didn’t detect his shock at seeing the object, but the boy was enjoying their discovery too much for such subtleties. As the other one explored the brownish bones with childish glee, Chris had time to make some connections.
“It’s a good place to hide a body! She hasn’t been found in thirty years!” he finally said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“A girl goes missing in this town, everybody knows! The last time it happened it was that Karen Bell girl, thirty years ago!”
“Great! If we tell the police, we’ll be like heroes! In all the papers, and TV”
“Yeah, too bad nobody is going to find out.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Come on over here a bit.” he said in a strangely serious tone.
“Just get over here! Will ya?” But his friend was backing up, he didn’t get far as he tripped on a tree stomp. Chris lunged towards him and he grabbed the sharp rock he saw next to the corpse.
As he was walking home, Chris was studying the ring. It was just as his granma’ had described it. It had belonged to his granddad, whom he never met. When he died Chris’ father was very young. He inherited the ring, and was supposed to pass it on, but when he was fifteen he lost it. All he ever said about that was that it had been a bad day. It was the same day the