Published by Squid Inc

© Andrew Climance 2010

All rights reserved

Cover image © EverythingIsInStock

****by Andrew Climance

For my family

My daughter curled up

next to me

warm and distracted

as the tv churns

the latest nonsense.

She looks up at me and smiles

and I smile

and we share something

unconditional

and undisputed.

Her attention turns

back to the tv.

I continue to stare at her

in wonder and delight

that even a man

such as I

could create such beauty.

Captured and enraptured

untidy strings entwined

and love is blind, they say.

A breeze in your hair,

Freedom

and without a care.

Gazing long into your soul

anxiety flows

and on any other day

you might walk away,

but love is blind

they say.

Sun through the trees

a dappled, cold morning

something nagging

wrong

on such a beautiful day.

Trout rise and

break the surface.

A moment of

clarity.

And there in your eyes,

every sunset,

every sunrise.

Love.

On such a beautiful day.

(for Helen)

We drank wine

and lay in bed,

and we kissed

once or twice,

but nothing else.

I stole the wine

from beneath

our stairs,

climbed into bed

and held her there.

The metallic taint

upon her breath,

the long hair

and boyish breasts

of the artist, Jane.

We said goodbye

as suddenly she left,

I often pined

and never did forget

skinny, earnest Jane.

Waiting for something to happen.

Change

but not for the sake of change.

The stale room,

unrewarding,

monotonous and

where were you when I needed you?

Time to go,

outstayed my welcome

days fishing replaced by

days of dread and the need for

something else.

Fear of moving on and

fear of not,

and fear that this is all I’ve got.

A job.

Prison.

Time to move on.

Wordsfolded in meaning and more.Words of passionandof treacherysometimes honesty.

Your wordsam I to understand?Out thereand high and drywords of loveand of war.

My wordstwisted and tumbling and never quite enough.Never quite right.

Wordsthey gather likecloudsflirt like loversandcut so deep.

So what is left to do right now

‘cept crash the party like Chairman Mao?

When it comes, and it’s gonna come,

it won’t stand aside for anyone

My sweet tornado,

your body’s blue,

and I don’t want to follow you.

My bold distraction,

I need you too,

and I can’t wait to be with you.

My sweet salvation,

is that too bold?

for one so free you stand so cold…

I’d follow you through the fire,

the hellish storm,

hide inside and close your eyes.

Gather clouds, come gather,

here with the torn,

resign to my contented sighs.

I faced my demons,

and gave them names,

contemplated everything again.

Two worlds colliding,

that is my truth,

I need not answer this to you.

My Johnny Cash,

my man in black,

I said the words, can’t take them back.

(continued over)

A loaded pistol,

a round in the frame,

here we fucking go again.

Sweet liar, woman,

your honey drips,

I taste the lie upon your lips.

My own cold ghost,

come and gone,

a breast to lay my head upon.

I lift a beer and call your name,

my lucky charm,

I carve your name upon my arm.

I pop a pill,

the bitter chill,

wake up and do it all again.

Oh sweet tornado,

I curse your name,

as I write this last refrain.

Your eyes so dark,

blue, black and raw,

you’re everything I should adore.

Oh savage flower,

with scent so frail,

so set upon a wicked trail.

In the eye of the storm,

we spoke too soon,

crazy angels called the tune.

River over stones

and sun-bleached bone,

the winds on your face that leave no trace.

Relentless,

the rain falls

and

bounces

off the river’s surface.

Needles

piercing a grey

northern

sky,

cold and impersonal,

much as you

and I.

The river carries the

raindrops,

rapidly and

without ceremony,

somewhere

else;

I imagine

much as you or I

would like to be

carried

away.

I look at you and I know

there’s black ice on the water

and I know

this could be it forever

What would you say if I asked?

The words lead to disorder

words that cloud the water

what would you say if I asked?

There’s clouds in the sky and I know

that getting there is harder

and I know

this could be it forever

Beacons in the night

light up the sky with fires

can it last forever?

Take up arms and march

we knew this from the start

and we sing

nothing lasts forever

(continued over)

Forever never comes

we beat a different drum

and walk across the water,

through black ice and disorder

and I know

you are mine today.

Counting down the hours

hours drenched in wine

and howling like a dog

lost and too far gone.

Driving through the rain

fears swept away

crying out again

and so long lost…

Shifting through the gears

sounds that fill your ears

and howling like a dog

a second time.

Sitting still alone

the dog that got the bone

crying out in pain

time to run…

Walking like you walk

talking like you talk

playing at the fool

it’s never you.

Watching days go by

counting hours that fly

beating on that dog

again, again, again...

Woman,

outstretched arms

toward me,

reach for all the things

that can’t be.

In that familiar way,

the fingers twitch

and pull

away.

Hear the songs playing in my head

hear the bells ringing out the dead

but you daren’t turn around ‘cause you got

no one to blame.

You’re the fire lighting up the skies

you’re the cause of my compromise

But the hairs on my neck will rise up

all the same.

Epiphanies happen in my sleep

got a secret that’s mine to keep

and to share isn’t right though I tell you

all the same.

I would cut and bleed for you

cross the line if you asked me to

there’s fear in those eyes yet still

we play the game.

Hear the thunder, raise the stakes

like they gave you one last break

and the chances are slim, still we’ll take them

all the same.

Still the songs playing in my head

still the chimes of the scattered dead

if you turn you are lost and you’ve got

no one to blame.

Look down

cast those eyes from mine

my cold glass eye;

staring stupidly as

clouds burst

and

the rain

rains down.

This is the hair

on your back

that grows back on itself

infecting the follicle

and causing an abscess,

swelling and

placing pressure

upon your spine,

a pressure that

ultimately

paralyses you.

A proud moment

as we step into

a dead

man’s

socks.

Tread soft

and light of foot,

do not awaken

your senses.

Breathe

and

be still,

in the quiet

that surrounds.

Leave it at

the door.

Leave the fear

and

the anger,

piety and

anxiety.

Be still.

One solitary

moment,

one

realisation.

One

ultimate

understanding.

(continued over)

Tread gently,

breathe

soft,

be still and

look around.

Feel

the

moment.

Pulling floorboards back

revealing

someone else’s

ceiling

Not knowing

guessing

imagining her with

another man

kissing

touching

and I am consumed

with fury.

In the morning

she brings me

a coffee

and we exchange

barely a word.

I rise as she leaves

for work

door banging

loudly

behind her.

Remember life?

Life before

the junk of life?

Laughing

through the starburst

as we tore colours

from the

rainbow.

Strong,

powerful

and full of

heart.

We were the

young gods,

the demon seed

of our great-grandparents’

frightened souls

with fire in our

bellies

alcohol in our

veins

and sex

indelibly stamped

upon our

insect minds.

Fucked by the Big Feara short story

So, Friday night and here I am, sitting across the

table from her in this dive of a club in the centre

of Manchester, breathing in her cancer.

Something is telling me that I might just be

wasting my time. Still, she’s not bad looking, a

little large maybe but that’s no problem, and I

haven’t had a shag in weeks. Any port in a

shitstorm. She’s drunk and getting drunker.

Between beer and vodka chasers she tells me

about her boyfriend and I watch as the cigarette

burns lazily between her chubby pink fingers; she

hasn’t put it to her lips once since she lit it and

this bugs me. She tells me that her boyfriend

hasn’t phoned in over a week and that she thinks,

maybe, it is over. I take this as a good sign.

By midnight she is way beyond drunk and it is

decided; we have our hands on each other and

agree to leave for somewhere more suitable. I

bundle her into a cab and we set off for her

place. When we get there it’s a nice enough flat;

cheap but tidy, with furniture from Ikea, if a little

‘girlie’ for me, but then I have no intention of

staying around.

It isn’t long until we’re going at each other,

drunken and raw and a little too fast; she calls

me by her boyfriend’s name a couple of times

but I don’t care. We’re all over each other until

we begin to get sore and lose interest, and we fall

into an uncomfortable sleep in a heap of sweat,

stink and dishevelled sheets.

I wake early and roll over, head pounding, and

she is all snores and slobber. Getting up quietly,

I dress, wash and get out fast; my mouth tastes

nasty and I’m giving off a seriously uncool funk.

I catch the bus into town and then head for

home and a shower. As we wait for the bus, a fat

woman unselfconsciously adjusts her clothing

while passers by – on their way to the shops, to

work, to meet a friend, living their lines of credit

and pinning their hopes on the Lotto – pretend

not to look. She turns a little, trying to tuck her

blouse into her skirt to hide a large roll of skin,

greyish and with purple mottled patches. She

does a couple more small turns, following the

flab like a dog chases its tail. I stand and watch

and wish that I was at home.

The bus arrives and is filled with the usual

types that you can always find at any time on any

bus in the city: the fucked-up guy with trousers

that are too short and white socks beneath, the

dickhead playing some hip hop/dance shit on his

mobile phone and an old man with a persistent

cough, who leans across to me and tells me that

he has never smoked but doesn’t mind a drink. I

know, I can smell it on you, you horrible bastard.

Then he mutters something unintelligible and I

smile vacantly and turn to look out of the

window.

I get home eventually, wash off the night’s

excesses in the shower and sleep for another

couple of hours. When I wake I am hungry, so I

get dressed and go out to the local cafe for a late

breakfast. It’s nothing special, the cafe; a dirty,

greasy nowhere place that probably breaks a

dozen or so health and safety regulations, but it

is cheap and close by. I walk in and look around

and straightaway realise that there is someone

sitting at every single table. I see one that is

occupied by a pretty-looking girl on her own and

I walk over. The girl, in her early twenties, is

staring into her coffee cup and doesn’t seem to

notice as I approach.

“Anyone sitting here?”

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look up.

I sit down.

She is wearing a raincoat, long and frayed at

the edges. Her eyes, heavy with mascara, are dull

and reddened; snot is caked lightly at the corners

of her nostrils and her hair hangs, dull and

hopeless. I couldn’t want her less. Suddenly, she

seems to notice my presence and she looks up at

me. I smile. She holds out her hands, showing

me palms that are cracked and dirty and badly

misused; her name is Ruth, she says, and she has

had a very bad day. I can believe it, I say, still

smiling.

The owner of the place comes over, looks

from me to her, smiles and asks me what I want.

I order a coffee and full English and he walks

away, back into the kitchen. I look across the

table at Ruth who has gone back to staring into

the cup in front of her.

“Are you okay?” I ask, though she says nothing.

The guy brings my coffee over places it on the

table in front of me and walks away again.

“I’m not a fucking whore!” she hisses at me.

Surprised, I give out a little snort of a laugh,

but this enrages her. She leaps up out of her seat,

knocking the table over as she does.

“I’m not a fucking whore, you bastard!”

My coffee is sent spinning from the table and

into my lap, scalding my thigh and balls, I try to

jump up, slip on the wet floor and fall flat on my

backside, and she is standing over me, shaking

with rage, before she turns and runs out of the

place.

“Are you okay?” asks the owner.

“Yeah. Yeah… can I get another coffee

please?”

He throws a dishcloth down at me and laughs.

“Don’t worry about Ruth, son. She does that to

everyone.”

I pat myself dry, get up and leave without

paying.

It is then that I remember the lads are coming

around tonight.

We sit and we talk and sit and talk, and we drink

as we talk; we drink beer and the beer runs out,

so we drink cheap scotch and talk and,

eventually, the scotch runs out. We talk shit

about women and football and politics, and we

tell each other harmless lies. I don’t feel much

like talking tonight. Or drinking. I feel like going

upstairs alone to bed and sleeping for ten or

twelve hours straight. I yawn and stretch and no

one takes the hint, so I yawn and stretch and

break wind loudly but this is greeted only with

cheers. I tell the lads how tired I am but they are

all too fucking drunk or stupid to understand

and I am too polite to kick them out of my

house. They talk and I switch on the tv, flipping

from channel to channel. Late night tv has

nothing to offer at the best of times.

When finally they leave, I stumble around the

house, turning off appliances, checking locks

and windows and cleaning up ashtrays and beer

cans before going to the fridge and taking a long

deep swig of milk. I turn off the lights and go

upstairs to bed, but I know now that I won’t be

able to sleep, so I sit in bed watching the sky

outside slowly lighten.

With grim fascination, I pull the nail off my big

toe, peel it back and twist it out from the root. I

had noticed over the past few days that it was

beginning to come loose. Using my Swiss Army

knife, and the tool for getting stones out of

horses’ hooves, I dig about a bit under the nail

itself and it rises from the nail bed and away

from the toe. I gently pull it away and it comes

easily enough, attached only at the very root. The

nail is now standing at a right angle to my toe. I

feel a wave of nausea doing this, but it passes.

Finally, I twist the nail sharply and it comes

away leaving just a little blood as a marker of

what is now lost. I sit looking at my naked toe.

It looks stupid and wrong.

It has been a long day.