Drink my Think

My favourite thing to do at the moment is to write really silly short poems about my friends, they have to guess who its about and then i don’t like to tell them.

‘a puff to share a thought,

no lessons to be taught,

lay in my bed and laugh,

at ourselves, talking about shit,

out keys both fit, lets go abroad,

and do nothing at all’

six word memoirs

Ten Six Word Memoirs

1.      Celia’s caravan, bike rides, broken cars.        

2.      Your Einstein mind, your numbered fingers.

3.      To Dad: do you like kites?

4.      Come and see me sometime soon.

5.      Head in books, hands in maggots.

6.      Mutual hate, sickening finger snaps. Snap.

7.      Everything blue, it’s a lovely hue.

8.      I stay up late, it sucks.

9.      Blue as a bath wet cat.

10.  Found, lost, found again, loved again.   

When I was eight

When I was eight my Father told me to wake up and to come and look outside. It was 4am and I was groggy from my eight hours of sleep. Only a shadow in my back room bedroom he walked out of my room, and left my door undone. I could hear him trying to stir my sister through the space in between our rooms, but she was four and in no mind to rouse from her man made warmth.

I put on my dressing gown, feeling a chill on my legs, a curse I brought on myself from a refusal to wear anything other than snow white vests to bed. I looked for Dad around the frame of the door but he was not there. Going back into my room I found my slippers and walked out to the hall. Tip toeing past my parent’s room I sneaked a look at their space, mum was asleep on her side. Her skin golden from a gap in the curtains extruding street light. It felt strange to see her sleep, that door was always closed and she was always awake. I stayed there a minute observing her still, a child in her sleep, eyes twitching and a soft scent of breath.

Climbing carefully down the stairs, I took a minute to look through the small window that looked out on the garage roof, the window that Dad told me I would go through if a fire broke out. The street was silent, odd to see no one about; a scare prickled my skin. I walked on. Dad was stood in the front door frame when I made my final decent. His eyes sparkling, almost black with excitement, he whispered ‘Come and Look’, so I did.

Taking his hand into the street down the drive my dressing gown fought with the wind and I retreated into his coat. I felt entirely safe, a kind that was pure and a feeling I now find hard to grasp. I tilted my head up to copy my dad and then I saw it. A planet, not Earth, was in view at the bottom of our road. Stepping out of his arms we walked down to the end of our cul-de-sac edging what seemed closer towards it. Cars lined up next to us and homes turned to black didn’t prickle anymore, it was warm. Wisps of sea crust swirled around it, purple not there land placed upon it, a thousand gasps. We sat down on the road, and played with broken up tarmac, a game of breaking it up further and throwing it away. The night sky stayed in front, enveloping us, almost golden from streetlight, it tirelessly engraved us. We stayed there until unwrapped in amazement and went back inside. The next week I bought a telescope for six pounds from Argos. It remained unused for some years to come, collecting dust, and then became a permanent fixture in a sello-taped up box, through the small window, hidden under the garage roof.

A repetitive beeping interrupts my sleepless sleep, drilling into the side of my head spitting headache. I hit the snooze button, fall back down and breathe deeply. Finally images begin play behind my eyelids. Thick heavy beads of sleep rest in the corners of my eyes when I finally come to, careful not to scratch my forehead I wipe it out, rubbing it into my sheets.  A sensation of groggy regret washes through my limbs, weak from rest I stretch out across my makeshift bed, it groans with complaints of too much weight. The next part of the sensation begins to overpower my senses, a hammer taps at the back of my skull, a familiar protest from my body to myself to stop with the drink. I have a hangover, ah yes. Urging my body to sit upright and start the day, I drag myself into seated position. Swinging my legs out of the sheets, I take the nearest corner with me to the floor and begin my decent.

Making my way to the bathroom I dodge the empty cans; however, my graceful performance is less successful with the cigarette butts. They stick to my feet, trapping themselves in the hair between my toes. I walk into the bathroom; the light is still on from last night. Pushing my face towards the half there mirror I open my eyes up to my appearance. The hair around my eyes is longer than yesterday’s, the definition of my eyebrows gone. It’s no better on my cheeks or around my mouth. It’s easy to cover up a body, clever suits and thick gloves generally do the job. Searching for the scissors amongst piles of old razors, toothbrushes and cups of yellowing water I finally notice their dull sparkle. I pick them up; finding it tricky to squeeze my thumb shaped fingers into the human sized holes.

Forty minutes later and I sort of resemble a man, however, tiny hard to get to hairs still push through my skin and my nose has been cut. Underneath all the hair it is still an odd shape, still animalistic, still twitching and seeking out new food, new smells. Piles of clothes have become my bedroom floor. I light up a cigarette and I find my suit. These fabric legs are tight and stiff, the shirt creased, odd buttons littering the front. I go back to the mirror, an awkward looming creature stares back blankly. I’m glad at least for these self made tailors, ‘Mr Big’ and ‘XXL’. They make me feel normal at least; other men have to shop there too.

Walking down the stairs, into the kitchen I start my household morning routine. Five pieces of toast, buttered. Fried eggs were missing today, a quick note springs to mind; ‘must go to the shop’, the idea immediately causes my palms to sweat and my heart to beat faster. Shaking the thought away I walk into my front room and sit on my home made to size chair, the others ones are redundant. They are for decoration, an image of family life and of spaces for visitors to sit that never come.

The remote control had been lost in absent mindedness a few days before, nearly standing up I struggle towards the television, chose my channel for the day and sit back down. I stay there for a couple of hours but soon notice a pang of hunger, a growl from within. I have to go outside. Circling the room I take a quick decision to move, grab my coat off the hook and walk towards the door. With one hand stretched towards the door it reminds me to put on my gloves, turn the doorknob and open the door. The flash of bright light bursts into view, images soon developed for my retina to endure and I walk down the drive, turning right and sticking to the path.

The walk was no different to any I had ever walked. I turned left into the once orchard- turned-satellite field, a short cut, (there were less people to meet on this route). Everything still had the same paleness, all drawn from the same earth. My ignorant skin bathed in the early morning light. Nervously walking down the path, I soon tired and sat down on a discarded branch. I curled my fingers around the splintering bark and softly breathed in the scent of dust, allowing my eyes to close for a minute and the corners of my mouth to rise slowly. I felt at home. Natural.

Standing up I shook the thought away, I had wanted to be here, a land of opportunity id heard, and I walked towards the shop. Although it was not the closest to me, I chose this one specifically. No one asked me how I was, or if I needed any help. It was transaction between business man and customer. Buying 12 eggs, a carton of milk, tea bags and a loaf of bread I made my journey back. Walking back home, I stuck to the path, crossing the road when anyone came too close. I didn’t want to scare or encourage stares.

I wasn’t fast enough to avoid human contact on the last corner of my trip, a woman in her seventies came straight at me, launching herself into my chest. She immediately clocked my un-human-like qualities. One of the older generation, one of those who had not yet accepted my kind, even if there were only a few of us that remained after the culling. She pushed straight past me, calling me an ‘unprofitable beast of god’, then walking on, muttering something about benefit fraud.

Speeding up my pace, soon running, palms sweating, I ran at my door, slamming it behind me. I found a paper bag to breathe into, sucking in discard fag butts; I sat against the wall, knees close up to chest. Feeling calmer and safe again I boiled an egg, sat back down the chair creaking slightly as it succumbed to my weight. I opened up a new bottle of whisky and chose to watch ‘life’, a natural programme, displaying the beauty of ‘animals’.  If they were beautiful then why wasn’t I celebrated too? A society riddled with fears. I could have stayed put; I could have chosen ‘life’.