Seraca II

I left the cafe, lightly buzzing from the extraneous coffee, and began to wander down the highstreet. It was a wednesday afternoon and the cobbles were hot with the footsteps of hundreds of shoppers, browsers, window shoppers, malingering youths and pensioners. The pensioners weren’t contributing to the “hot footsteps”, they bleated and mumbled, wandering and meandering in front of all others, seemingly intent on impressing onto the youngsters just how meaningless and aimless their trip to the shops was. They were counting down the days til death and were at pains to demonstrate the paucity of their existence. I pushed roughly past one such pensioner, a woman whose cracked and withered body seemed to imply that she was devolving into some variety of goblin-like creature and that the transformation was near to complete. After passing the butchers it occurred to me that I was not in a rush to be anywhere, and had in fact nowhere to go. It was only then that I realised that the flat I shared with Jade up until about twenty minutes earlier was no longer my home and that I had only to return there to collect the cliched black bin bags of clothing that were sure to litter the front lawn. Having very few clothing items of value and even fewer reasons to see Jade again that day I decided that my first port of call was to be Jeff’s house. I turned left by the newsagents and down the narrow passage, past a group of chavs who attempted to intimidate me by pulling their t-shirts up over their faces and shouting racial slurs which were more bafflingly inaccurate than offensive.
Five uneventful minutes later I arrived at Jeff’s abode, rang the faux Victorian bell and waited on the step, taking in the rich oaky scent of the door and admiring the small cabbage patch covering the garden in lieu of a flower bed. After an appropriate amount of time the door swung open and the haggard shell of Jeff stood before me. He’d put on weight, not dangerously, but enough to notice, a bit around the chin, a ripple on his belly, visible under the pastel blue shirt and inoffensive brown jacket. His hair line had moved back, again, not significantly, but enough that I noticed. He seemed to be looking to compensate for this through his lush spouting of facial hair, thick and soft, a “real” beard as Jade’s mother would no doubt have said. One not normally worn by a man of 30 years, not a fashion statement but not a mess, it framed his face and covered his acne marks and the scar he’d taken from the glass fight in his student days. He look tired. He didn’t disguise his surprise at seeing me.
“Peter, what the fuck, Peter?”
His eyes narrowed and he laughed loudly before grabbing me by the shoulder and effectively dragging me inside. I followed the brutish scholar into his study (first door on the right, cabbage patch view), it was simple and utilitarian in design, it felt cold and clinical, much like a therapist’s office. A desk sat in the far right corner, piled high with books yet none were open and the stack was precise and clean. The whole of one wall was a built in bookcase with all manner of dusty, leather bound, frayed tomes of varying importance, reputation and obscurity. The only other item in the room was a mahogany and leather sofa, on which we both sat. He turned in to face me and began as though he were continuing a recent conversation.
“Well, where the fuck was my invite then?”
“To what?” I replied. There were many events over the past two years (had it been that long?) that i’d neglected to invite Jeff to, more out of apathy than vindiction.
“To what? To what? The launch, the bloody book launch! The biggest occasion of your life, the biggest party of my life, and you didn’t invite me? I mean, sod the book, Sir David Frost was there, wasn’t he?”
“And Robert Winstone” I muttered, though perhaps not wisely.
“You prick, I bet you had hundreds of tickets, and I know you, I bet it was just you and Jade, and she only went because she opened the envelope and you only went because she made you!”
“Damn the book Jeff, the book was a bomb. They tore it to shreds, it was that bloody Newsnight Review, once any one of those urbanite, wealthy, pretentious arses watched it being bled on tv they wouldn’t touch it. That Craig Thomas in The Guardian sai…
I was cut off.
“…that ‘for a work so steeped in it’s apparent convictions, Seraca not only lacks any real substance but also patronises and condescends it’s readership. It preaches to a choir, one which is thankfully choking and dying in the pews’. He splashed four stars on the Twilight book yes, but he’s also a bloody good historical scholar. His paper on The Winter’s Tale lit up a whole new discussion on Shakespeare’s body of work. He’s bloody good Peter, maybe he got it right about Seraca, maybe he didn’t, but he definitely read the bloody thing and that’s to be applauded. 982 pages man!..
“986, without foreword”

Dirty White

Step up, turn back
The mouse bleeds clearer now
Coward, return to lay on the moss
Procrastinated, desecrated
You are not time
I cry that beyond all this lives
A candle from the tears of a phoenix
You rise once more, turn, then run
I am fear
Exsanguinate the rodent, drape it’s corpse
Over your flayed back

The taste, flavour of your screams
Addictive, you take up all the space
In my box, my cell, no light
Bread and water and a mouse’s nose
No one lives for themself alone

Enter The Albatross

Innate fear of social change
Calm this hostility, we are here for love
Yet we need more than a heart
To sate the taste of a tapered candle
The wax on our skin, but we are here for love

Iron clad we walk our oceans
Set off the charge
Breach the hull, once more
For the kill, brine rushes in
A new home for your corpse
Sealed, now Utah screams for me
But the only hope I know
The only sign of safety, is your body
To lay within your arms
The beat of your lungs
Rattles my spine, this is love

Thesaurus, in the thorax
A bird overhead
Sense is an illusion
Coherent thought is overrated
A cliché, to allow interpretation
An inferno eviscerates the fear of our lust
But we no longer care
Your body, this is love

This Is Love

Sudden death syndrome
And there’s nothing left for you
I guess this is the hand you were played
Take it for what it is
Slide the leach against your teeth
It tastes like pain
Brewed in anguish
The life of a dead girl is
Worth nothing more
Than the sound of her eyes
As they snap shut

We killed her
She has fallen

But this is what you wanted?
Sin and death
I know you love this
Don’t pretend the leach wasn’t to your pallet

Displayed for emptiness
A vacuum of existentialism
But this is what you wanted?
This is love

And All That’s Staged Is The World

I remember the day
Yet this night seems so familiar
As though every waking second is
Lived through this curtain of darkness

The air is still
Cold, and yet, something about it
Tastes so sweet, offers hope and
Hope offers so much more than itself

The most generous of words, the promise
Of something, anything
Hope reaches out and grips in
I’ll ride these midnight moments

A gift or curse, forget
The cliches and lose the cynicism
Not everything is satire, no need
To be such a cunt

And don’t act so offended by loose lips
And lexical slips, if these words reach you
Or hurt your soft sensibilities
Just brush it off, or vindicate my vulgarity

It’s not his fault, it’s this time
It’s this hour, it plays with the mind
Or opens it up, one way or the other
He’s not himself, or he’s far too honest

Embrace deceit, hide your face
Wear this mask, a harlequin, a harlot
Whether painted on or tightly fixed
Never show them who you are, never drop your guard

Raise your shield, your sword arm
Block, parry, block, thrust
You brought a blade to gunfight
Standing in an open field with a stick as they carpetbomb

It’s been a long night,
Cuddle up closer my dear
I’ll close the curtains
You’re safe in here

An Extract From My Episodic Sitcom Script

Will, Alex and Dan are staggering back down the street towards their house. Alex’s shirt is torn and bloody and he has a black eye.
I’m sorry man, I’m sorry he got you but, but you know, I’m sorry, it was instinct to duck. I’m sorry. You take a punch like a champ though.
Don’t want to talk about it.
She totally looked at me. She saw me there didn’t she? I bet if she didn’t have to go help those two guys find something in the toilet she would’ve came and said hello.
I bet she came alright.
Huh? Alex, where is your tooth? Wow he really pounded you? Bet you’re really pissed with Dan?
Don’t want to talk about it.

They reach the front door.

Come on, lets get in and get to bed.
Ok then.
Well are you going to let us in man?
What? I don’t have a key with me, you guys were already out, you have one?
I left mine, I only take the bare essentials out with me.
There’s an aftershave bottle in your breast pocket.
Yeah, I take pride in MY appearance.
Ooh, you burnt me there Careless Whisper!
Fuck you, open the door.
I don’t have a key, that’s Chester work!
It’s fucking freezing guys, just get in.
Seriously, nobody has a key? Lets the try the back garden, we could sleep under the marquee, the picnic rug is still out.

They walk down the street and through an alley way to the back gate.

Right, Will, shoulder charge the gate open.
I bought that gate after you fucks destroyed the last one. No shoulder charges.
And why me anyway? Why don’t you do anything ‘Oooh I’m so strong, I have an athlete’s build, yeah I’m bulking on’, knock the gate down fatty!
Nobody is knocking the gate down.
I’m not fat! I can’t knock the gate down, I might scuff my shoes.
Big whoop, they’re made of straw!
These are organically made boat shoes from the finest ship’s ropes. I rub linseed oil into them every evening and keep them in a warm, dark place over night, I am not kicking a fecking gate down with them, even though I could.
Nobody is kicking it down!
They’re not cool, you look like a douche loser.
One of the guys fucking Sarah was wearing some, he’s not a loser. Especially not in the ‘Who Can Bang Sarah Contest’.
The gate is open guys, I climbed over.

The three guys are shivering as they lie down under the marquee, on the picnic blanket. We focus on Dan shivering, Will shivering, Alex trembling, Dan shivering and then Will wrapped in a warm blanket.

Hang on, where did you get that blanket?!
The cupboard under the stairs, want me to get you one?
Hang on, what?

Dan gets up and walks toward the back door, he opens it and stands there, staring at Will in disbelief.

What? You seemed really keen on the camp out. You even said to me earlier you fancied a night outdoors.
Like, under the stars man, we should do that, totally, like Henry David Thoreau, do that tonight.
Oh yeah.
Goddamn you’re a pair of assholes. Why is it open anyway?

Chester clambers over the frame of the back gate, despite it being open, causing bewildered looks. He jogs up to them, wearing full skin tight Underarmor, it is very unflattering.

Oh sweet, you guys are up like you said.
Oh yeah, we totally need to get in shape. Gym season. Beach season. We should do a Sparta night out.
Yeah, go out as Spartans for someone’s birthday.
Haha yeah but someone we care about right? Haha.
Was that bit necessary? You didn’t have to flashback that!
Yeah we should all hit the gym tomorrow, hard.
Yeah and early too.
Yeah, really early.
It opens at 6am. Lets go then.
Yeah, lets get up before that though so we can sharpen up, go for a warm up run.
Yeah, 4.45!
Great idea. Can you make sure we wake up Chester?
You sure? That’s really early.
Yeah man, that’s the point, seize the day. Wake us up and make sure we come along, don’t take no for an answer. Use violence if you have to.
Really don’t hold back, hit us and everything.
Oh yeah.

Tone and Timbre

I need someone to help me to forget her
Name, her voice, her eyes, that face
Hell, it’s not that bad, thanks for the memories
Something for the cold nights
And yet, it’s the memories that burn darker
Than fears and nightmares
That scar and seep into my waking mind
Warping and judging, placing such weight
On the tone and timbre of her voice
Her inflection, and jokes don’t carry as well
When you break them down for meaning
She’s an addiction and in the deepest throes
The worst part of all of it is
Everytime I speak to her I write a fucking sonnet

Finality In Hope

Lyrics to Finality In Hope by The Fall Of Science

Will, will you ever, ever be, anything you claimed to be

If you’ve never felt love, how do you write about it?
If you’ve never been there, how can you tell the story?
I’ve crossed the water, I’ve sailed the ocean
I have to believe we are enduring

When you look into my eyes and see they are corroding,
I’m dying inside through this thought of confusion.

These words are so damn solid
Stand by your actions, go raise your armies
And now I see it clear, now I hold so dear
Only friends and brothers, for they are eternal

When you look into my eyes and see they are corroding,
I’m dying inside through this thought of confusion.
When you look into my heart and see that it’s still breaking
I’m dying inside through this thought of confusion.

You’ve really taken the best of my life, you’ve really taken the best of my life
You can’t ever seem to bring me down 
You’ve really taken the best of my life, you’ve really taken the best of my life
You can’t ever seem to bring me down.

There’s finality in hope, if you cling on to it
But I won’t
There’s beauty in love, if you can take it
But I don’t

You’ve really taken the best of my life, you’ve really taken the best of my life
You can’t ever seem to bring me down 
You’ve really taken the best of my life, you’ve really taken the best of my life
You can’t ever seem to bring me down.

If you need faith to find meaning in life then I pity, I pity you

You’ve really taken the best of my life, you’ve really taken the best of my life
You can’t ever seem to bring me down.


In my dreams i’m soaring
Coasting, flying, rising high above
The bleak towers and turrets of our world
If this is my deepest desire

Then what does that say about
The life that i’m living
If all I crave is solitude and
An escape, to travel anywhere

Anyplace but here
The updraft whips around my
Tattered clothes, draped loosely
Over this broken body

Yet for the life of me
I can’t think of anywhere else i’d
Rather be and this dream has
Followed me for as long as I’ve known

Windwalking, racing across
Rooftops, riding clouds until
I fall flat on my face
A mouthful of dirt and grit

Spit it out and ascend
Rise again, remain ethereal
Airborne and weightless
So sick of waiting

They say that you can
Run from your problems
But can’t run from yourself, well
I’ve never heard any cautionary talk

Of trials, tribulations, ordeals or
Unpleasantness chasing and following
As you drift along on a draft
Or grip on to a gust

Running With The Pack

The breath is hot in my lungs yet
I course ever onwards
Thighs straining, blood struggling to
Feed every fibre of each muscle

Listen to them call
The children of the night
When the world is silent
There is no sweeter sound

Than the music of rampant
Furry death, charging across
Icy ground, the tundra opens up
Yet my fur doesn’t match theirs

An intruder, a pretender
Undercover and undetected
Yet the flash of iridescence
Must have caught their attention

So lets tear across this wasteland
Claws cutting into sharp snow
Howling, scenting blood on the wind
We go for the throat

Jagged teeth sinking into soft flesh
Paws and claws tearing through the skin
Claret drizzles over their noses
I sit nearby, licking lips

Silently I skulk away
Soft padding steps into the trees
For this is not my hunt
I’m not one of them and we both know it