Perhaps

Perhaps we’re all tired of faces pressed against
The glass, fingers clinging to the edges
Standing atop roofs, ready to fall flat
One last time, one last push, one final stand
With backs against walls and many metaphors
More living for the sake of imagery and allusion
Alluding again adds to alliteration
For one mind too tired and tied up in over-thinking

Pushed far too far and with too little to show
But these battle scars which cut skin deep
Red blinking eyes look north and east for an escape
Anywhere but here, within or without a clue
Clearly caring for form beats flavour

Rhythm and meter will meet her as she falls short
Measuring the distance between iambs and I am
Too old for this ship, sailing through rocks and ravines
Glacial pace and taking on water far faster than I ever knew
Was possible. When apathy breeds antipathy and damn you
For not writing something universal

Fan fiction for flunking fantasy freaks
Would sell better than those ornate scribblings
Those little words, those little books you write
Ain’t that cute, hey did you read that new vampire book
Wow, weren’t that deep and isn’t that guy so cute
So perhaps I don’t want to be part of that discussion

And writing on the fringes is something more valuable in
The end, and perhaps it’s past time you realised
That it will be long after your end that you are appreciated
Or even noticed by many who saw the advert in their weekly
Paper but paid no more heed than they do for anything
That exists outside their dimly lit day

Born with no exotic name nor exciting accent
I’ll never be the darling of those who
Dangle dactyls from their necks or place
Trochees on trophy shelves, heaving and held up
By maple in their mansions
They have traveled the world, darling
And aren’t these people so rich in culture, darling
Now take a photo of that one, darling
Look, he’s crying, dancing his traditional dance, darling
Let’s hear what he has to say, darling

Perhaps being all that you can be and nothing
You are not, will win races in the long run
As you pad along this dusty marathon track
Barely able to even see the numbers on their backs
Mouth dry, muscles tired, bones heavy
Better hope you’ve got some more left in the tank
Better hope you saved some for the swim back

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Innocence

It was yesterday or the day before, years before
We sat there on his bathroom floor
Her head in my hands, huddled
Legs drawn up beneath my throat
Chin resting, waiting, compact and cocooned against
The knees which had sat so neatly on the linen

Drawn up,  held up, hoping for
A life in which silk sheets stained slower
And young lives were harder to colour with
The blotting blood of innocence lost
In a sense of the word, perhaps it was
Never found

We walk out into a wide world with
Brighter beaming lights than we had
Ever wanted or hoped to see
And still, when the metaphors merge
With the reality
You’re still sat there
Holding her head in your hands
On a cold tiled floor

At midnight in May
Never so scared or learning so much about
Who you really are as you did in three hours
Aged fifteen

Hearing her heartbeat tick, tock
Stutter, start, staggered pumping blasts
When it’s more than you can bear to hold
Her head up, let alone your own
It isn’t about you anymore
Or her for that matter
It’s about this, this whole thing
This deep mystery, this cosmic mess
That keeps us all constantly on the bleeding edge
Of a razor blade
You’d best get used to this

What they don’t tell you is;
Nobody is ever ready
For this dark ride through narrow streets
This game of life

Professor Found Guilty of Killing Her Softly

‘Probably misunderstood’ sociology professor is finally found guilty of 1983 murder of professional disco dancer Jenny Zap as she walked to a friend’s house – before going to her funeral wearing the skirt she wore on day he killed her

  • Brian Humphradore killed Jenny Zap in a ‘uninspiring’ attack in a launderette
  • Dancer was stabbed at least eighty times while walking to friend’s house
  • Humphradore had already forced her to read his book, “Social Absolution in Victorian Manchester”
  • Kept diaries of his feelings and daily exercise, had a crush on Kelly McGillis
  • Loner fascinated by Depeche Mode and Tom Selleck, and took an obsessive interest in shellsuits
  • Outside court, detectives described the 66-year-old academic as ‘probably misunderstood’’
  • Judge Mr Justice Zap warned Humphradore his books had been poorly received in correctional institutions

 

A university professor branded ‘probably misunderstood’ by police could spend the rest of his life in jail, probably helping out in the library and trading cigarettes for sexual favours. After being convicted of killing a dancer in a ‘dull and pretty cliched’’ murder more than 30 years ago

Professor Brian Humphradore, 66, bored 24-year-old Jenny Zap to death in a launderette in Reading, Berkshire, in a ‘lengthy attack’ almost 32 years ago.

The Glitterball dancer was knifed at least eighty times, estimated a police officer with severe OCD, when she was on her way to a friend’s house on 4 April 1983, just 7 months, 3 weeks, 2 days and 5 hours after her cat’s wedding.

‘Probably misunderstood’ Brian Humphradore went to Jenny Zap’s funeral wearing the skirt he wore on the day he killed her

Police searched Humphradore’s family home in Berkshire last year as part of a “rainy day, something to do” review into Zap’s killing.

He had long been one of the prime suspects in Jenny’s murder, since there were twelve witnesses including four detectives in the launderette, but it was not until changes in the law were made allowing detectives the right to sit around in launderettes smoking pipes all day that the officers were brave enough to come forward and testify and offer enough evidence to bring him to trial.

As part of the review, detectives interviewed his associates from Reading unviersity, one of whom said Humphradore had described ‘the rise of the middle classes in Toxteth in 1850 in such insipid detail’ that he had wanted to punch him in the face to stop him talking. ‘Frankly, I had wanted to shove his book up his arse, all 1,463 pages of it’.

Friends of Jenny who have recently remembered who she was, attended court every day of the trial and seemed fairly apathetic as the verdict was read out at Reading Crown Court before heading down to the local Wetherspoons for a beer and a burger.

Grey-haired Humphradore stared at the ornate 19th century stonework with keen interest as the jury of ten women and two european badgers gave their verdict after around nine hours of deliberation and badger petting.

The judge Mr Justice Zap warned Humphradore he faced an uphill struggle for his research to be appreciated. Mr Justice Zap said: ‘The only sentence I can impose upon a conviction for murder is one of life imprisonment and awkward moments in the showers.’

Midnight 2014

My New Years eve was spent with her in my arms, laying in a hammock beneath a palm tree in just swim shorts and a towel. Warm, relaxed and counting my blessings, I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so satisfied with the previous year or so excited about the one to come.

Actually…

That was 10pm

At 11:57pm I was in bed asleep, she tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to her watch, wanting to go out onto the balcony and watch the fireworks to see the new year in. I do not recall this. Apparently I nodded at her, murmured a word that sounded like “bluhmur” and rolled over back to sleep.

Not every moment can be like the movies.

Ray and Terry

“Eh, move your fat fucking arse mate!” yelled Ray at the prostrate form in front of us. I sighed and began pacing up and down the court, bouncing the shuttle cock against my racket. My paws clenched tightly around the pine as my tongue ran across my jowly lips. I regained composure and glanced back at Ray, who was still raging, still screaming in his strong northern accent at the mass of brownie-grey fat that was sprawled across the centre court. The empty bottle by its trunk betrayed the beast’s condition. I was about ready to give up and go home, “Leave it Ray” I bellowed at the distant, blurry form of my companion, now lost in the great canvass of leathery flesh, thudding his small paws against the great hide. The elephant was not awakened, rudely or otherwise, by Ray’s fit of rage and so was evidently quite sedated. One wondered quite how the intoxicated creature had found its way through the considerably smaller doors that led to the indoor courts. It didn’t do to dwell on the logic, it made my brain hurt. I marched over to Ray, who was now pounding so vigorously at the elephant that sweat soaked his fur and ran down his back, leaving a large bedraggled patch just above his arse. “He’s being a reet bastard, loike” he exclaimed through wheezing breaths. I convinced him to yield, forced him to stop, despite many protestations. The question of how to spend the rest of the day now reared into contention. As we sat in the changing rooms, removing our head and wrist sweat bands, Ray was clearly dejected and frustrated “I was reet oop fer that game, Terry lad, naw what the fuck we gonna do?” I heard the low murmur of misery in his voice and noted the glassy appearance of his round, black eyes. I sat in a slump down beside him on the bench. I put a comforting paw on his shoulder, then slowly withdrew it as i recalled his overriding irrational homophobia. I sat there in silence, struggling to think of an activity, something to do on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. “Ive got it!” I exclaimed with glee, “lets go to the Sealife centre!” Ray met this with a sigh “I fucking hate living in Scarborough”.