SHITHOUSE RONNIE, OH NO ANNETTE AND THE BLACK BASTARD


Smallbone had to say something, 'That's bollocks,' he said.

The boys were in the bar, variously disposed and not a little
dissipated. Shithouse Ronnie had the floor and he meant to make
the most of it. Pausing only to swallow his pint, he'd spotted
Annette coming in, he said, 'Bollocks? Bollocks? When did he
win anything, eh? Come on, when? What's he won worth a
shit, eh? What? Bollocks.'

'What has that to do with it, winning anything?' Smallbone sighed.
He saw little point in going on, poor deluded fools seemed unable to
recognize pure genius. Art, science, class, style, magic, luck, wit,
all embodied in Jimmy on a snooker table. He could have won the
World, sure he could. He was simply the best.

'He was simply the best,' Smallbone said, resting his case.

Annette got them in and spilled hers straightaway, 'Oh no,' she
said, 'Anyone see the Trump match?'

They all said bollocks and watched the luncheon crowd playing
snooker. The Slasher was in, hard at it, very Freudian, cutting
and thrusting, missing. Mr. Bumbole, sipping Guinness, upheld
his chewsoggy castella, 'Woya blod clart, shou'dn be allowed,
man, dis, me reach up to seea snookah, notta loada bankers.'

'Never mind, Bumbole, you can watch me give Annette a spanking.'

'Ah gard,' Mr. Bumbole said, 'Gard help me.'

Annette tossed a coin as Smallbone got down to break, 'Head,'
he said.

'Oi, it's a tail,' Annette said, 'Sod off, I'll break.'

She didn't quite reach the baulk cushion, 'Oh no,' she said, but there
was no harm done, and Smallbone was bound to go for something
spectacular. He played too fine, too pacy off the pack, dislodged a
couple of reds, clipped one on the way back sending it into the middle
pocket as the white spun off two cushions to a stop in the D. He rolled
up to the yellow, bumped it. Annette had a walk round, 'You might at
least apologise,' she said. She played cushion first off a stray, up and
down, safe. Mr. Bumbole watched, sucked on his cigar.

Three or four tables came off at once. A number of bank clerks
fiddled at the counter, looking everywhere but at Annette who'd
seen a tight red along the side cushion and mounted the table,
wriggling comfortable. She lined up the shot. There was a pink
into the middle inside the pack and she wanted it, but just as
she breathed in she touched a loose red with her right tit and
Smallbone called a foul.

'Oh no,' Annette moaned. The clerks held their breath as she
slowly poured herself back onto the floor, 'Aaaah,' they all
nearly said and left, sighing, like wet dreams.

Mr. Bumbole remonstrated, 'Wha' ya say? Wha' ya say?'

'Calm down, Bumbole, look, her tit touched the ball and that's
four to me ... '

'Touch? I see no touch. What touch? I see no body part ... '

'Look, Bumbole, tits are part of the body and body parts must
not touch balls, so when a tit does touch a ball, it's a foul, a tit
foul, and penalty points to me.'

'Oi,' Annette said, 'They're my tits and it's your shot so get on
with it.' Mr. Bumbole went to get the drinks in but he wasn't
happy. Smallbone got on with it and made a winning forty, then
he took the next frame on the blue. Annette handed over a
tenner and glowered.

Most of the tables emptied now and serious snooker began. Mr.
Bumbole watched Annette. She'd taken on Shithouse Ronnie and
she was a frame up in a best of three, stalking balls with a glint
in her eye. Ronnie needed a snooker to stay in it and he didn't
get it, leaving Annette the last red sitting over a pocket.

'Just going to the shithouse,' Ronnie said.

'Oh no,' Annette said.

A DOLL FACE DOWN IN THE WATER



There is a heat in August sometimes
That coils, fraught with summer spells,
Glowing in gardens, cooling in corners.
On so hot a day, a girl came, grieving.

We mourned a young brother.
By the pool children played,
'Oh, look,' one cried, 'Look,
'Esmerelda is drownding.'

DOG FOOD



It was late evening but still light when I pulled over. I'd been
driving all day and needed one more break - it was half an hour
or so to the cottage. I stepped down, went round to the passenger
door and let Connor out, he needed a walk too. I snapped the
lead on him, he was dumb enough to wander off and flop, out of
sight. The road was deserted. A small wood over to the right was
in shadow as night closed in. I knew the outskirts of this small town
and figured we were private enough. I took a leak against a tree
and Connor kept me company.

Walking back to the van I heard a muffled scream, cut off. The road
bent left up ahead, to where the sound had come from. I shortened the
lead and trotted up to the corner, knelt down with my arm around
Connor's shoulder and had a look. There were two well spaced
streetlamps before the rows of houses. A man came out of  the trees,
looked round brushing himself off, and began to walk away from us.
I sprinted for the van, hustled Connor in and started it, slowly backed
up to keep the sound low as possible until I had the distance to round
the corner at cruising speed. I reached in my bag for the Colt, safety on,
tucked it under my thigh.

The man had reached the first of the houses when I passed him and I
was looking round for a mailbox, anywhere to make a normal stop when
he turned off into a small row of houses. I parked, tied Connor to
the wheel, put away the Colt, and left the van with its lights on. I
walked over. He was there, putting his key into the side door of a
small house that had lots of lights on at the front, music playing,
not too loud. I hurried back to the van, started up and turned it
round, drove back to where the man had come from.

I parked by the spot and stepped out with Connor who was a little
surprised but he didn't argue. The trees started quite near the road
and as soon as we reached them Connor stiffened. He found her in a
second. Poor kid, she was bleeding steadily. I should have let the
bastard go and looked here ten minutes ago. Running back to the van
I hit the emergency key on my cellphone and got an ambulance on its
way before I spoke to the police. I said my dog had found her when
we stopped for a break and I was going back to her now with a blanket.
I could already hear the ambulance. I covered her still form. A tiny
sound came from her as she breathed. I stroked hair away from her
forehead. 'You hang on,' I said. Connor fussed round her, nuzzled
a trembling hand, cleaned off a trickle of blood. I looked for the knife.
Nothing there.

The police took four hours to process me, during which time I heard
that the kid was critical, on machines, but the signs were good. The
sun was low over the cottage when we got there. We didn't care. When
I closed my eyes to sleep the last thing I remembered was the cold
feel of her skin and her smell. It was afternoon when I woke, ran a
bath and took the radio in, turned on the news. The report was low key
but I found out what I wanted to know. He was out there, and I was
ready for him. I called the garage and told them I'd be keeping the van
for another week. I ordered a few steaks from the butcher and a sack of
bones for Connor. He was a big fucker, with a fancy name, a big shaggy
wolfhound with the brains of a flea and the table manners of a dog. Three
years ago I could carry him in my pocket. We ate a big meal.

That night I drove to the town and parked in the centre. Unloaded
 my bike and took a leisurely ride around, past the house. The lights
on, it was quiet. One of the houses opposite was dark and I circled
behind it, stashed the bike and climbed over the back fence, down to
the side to where I had a good view. I saw movement across the
window of his house and in a minute someone came out of the side door.
It was him. He turned to walk into the town. When I got there I
thought I'd missed him but I caught sight of him in a cafe. I put
the bike in the van and stepped over to the plate glass window and
looked at the menu. I saw him ordering from a waitress, a girl like
any other girl in that small town. She turned away. He made a con-
temptuous shrug and sneered. I went in. There was a young couple in
one corner, and another at the counter huddled close. The atmosphere
was sombre. The waitress served me hot coffee before she carried a
tray over to the man. I was two tables across from him and in the
neon light I looked at him. Light brown hair, his face slightly
waxy, freshly shaved, his mouth never quite closed, tight look to
his shoulders. He was in his late thirties.

A marked police car drew up outside and an officer came in. There
was a bag ready for him and he left with it straightaway. I saw that
the man had shrunk into himself when the car arrived but he did that
shrug again as it moved off. I was looking directly at him. I nodded
conspiratorially. He ignored me. I ordered a sandwich. We finished
eating. He picked up his check. We walked over to the till together;
I let him go ahead. Standing behind him I thought I might smell him.
He had a combed parting to one side with a fine sprinkling of
dandruff. I paid and left. Outside, I saw him looking in the window
of an electrical store. It took me ten minutes to walk as calmly as
I could to his house and I saw that there was a single light on in
an upstairs room. The neighbourhood was quiet as I went up the path
of his house to the side. I waited for him. His footsteps neared the
side door and as soon as I heard his keys I stepped out and sapped
him hard and he dropped. I dragged him out of sight, injected him,
took a look round and walked out and on into the town. I drove the
van back to his house and parked it, two wheels up on the curb, no
lights. I heaved him in. He had pissed himself, he stank. I covered him
up, drove back to the cottage, gagging on the smell. Connor came out
through the window and greeted me, hugely licking. Dumb dog, I'd
only been gone a couple of hours.

The man was stirring a little by now so I stuffed up his mouth and
tied a gag tight, making sure he had good breathing through his nose
before I ran the chains round him and secured him to the passenger
seat fittings. He could move his left leg slightly but he would have
agonizing cramp quite soon. I went in to the kitchen, made a pot
of coffee and heated pizza, I was hungry again, and so was Connor,
he was always hungry. I chucked a couple of bones down for him. I
always felt like David Attenborough, watching him. He looked as if
any minute he'd be ready to go hunt something. Local Jack Russells
put the fears up him just yapping out of their car windows, but he
looked the part.

It had been a tiring day. I went out to the van and the man's eyes
were open. There wasn't much light but I could see them. He'd been
crying. I hooked a couple of Connor's leads through the chains, got
him loose from the fittings and dragged him out of the back of the
van. He caught his left leg in the tow bar and, what with the dark
I didn't notice, and his leg snapped, just above the ankle. He did a
kind of balletic arch and I tugged on the leads more and he came loose.
I dragged him over to the shed and rolled him in. He came to rest
up against an old watering can and it tipped over onto him, dirty
water all over his shirt front. 'Good night,' I said, gave him a
smile, before I spiked him again. He shit suddenly, awful noise,
and I got out of there, nearly threw up. I was exhausted. Asleep
the minute I hit the sack.

Poor old Connor. He couldn't understand it. Most mornings down
here on the coast, we had breakfast together and then went for
a walk. Well, I had a quick cup of coffee as soon as I woke up
and then I went into the sitting room and listened to my messages,
not too many, I kept the line here private. Connor followed me
round with a look on his face. Puzzled. Hungry. I made sure all
the exits were closed then I went out to the van. I rigged up a
tow rope, backed up to the shed. When I went in I thought the
fucker had died on me, but he opened his eyes when I kicked him.
I think he was hallucinating, because he looked at me as though
I was the devil himself, and damned if he didn't shit himself
again. I threw some water in his face, the gag would soak it up,
I didn't want him mute. I looked at his leg. It was a clean break.
I hadn't realized last night. Made it easier to cut off. I'd have
liked him to have seen it but he was unconscious again. I left his
shoe on for purchase, drew a black plastic bag over his foot, and
cut it off with a carving knife by feel, nearly gave myself a nasty
nick. There wasn't much blood when I took the foot out, don't know
why I bothered with the bag, but anyway I'd made a nice neat job of
it, considering. I taped up the stump, put a bag over it, taped that,
put the foot in another bag, and then I hooked up the rope to his
chains and towed him out back into the trees. It was a squeeze but
I got the van through to the little copse I had in mind for him and
left him there. I drove the van back down and gave everything a
good hosing, cosmetic really, but it got rid of all the stinking shit
trails and blood on the floor. I took a good slice out of the foot,
from the heel, and went into the kitchen, sorted a couple of nice
juicy bones for Connor, he was practically beside himself, poor sod,
and in a couple of minutes he was done. Didn't seem too worried
about the man's meat, though he did take a good long drink from
his bowl.

I sat at my desk and wrote for a couple of hours, made a few phone
calls, and pretty soon it was lunchtime. We went up to the copse. I
took a bottle of water and a bowl for Connor, fussy bastard. I kept
him tied up nearby. The man had his eyes open, dull, which surprised
me. I noticed that the bag was sloshing a bit, and of course then I
realized all the blood in the foot wouldn't have filled a teacup.
His leg had been leaking blood all morning. Pity. I'd have to wash
it away eventually and the hose didn't reach up here, that was for
sure. I took out the foot and showed it to the man. He fainted. It
was a couple of minutes before I could bring him round. I smashed
the foot with a hammer a couple of times and twisted it about a bit.
I wasn't sure whether Connor would be put off if he recognized what
was for lunch. But I needn't have worried. I threw the foot to him
and held the man's head to be sure he saw what was happening. Well,
Con crunched the bones in a matter of minutes and was soon licking
his chops, ready for more. I faced the man and said, 'I'm going to
cut off your hands now, and feed them to Con, get rid of the prints.
Know what I mean?' I could have sworn he nodded, but anyway he had
fainted away and I cut his hands off. Took me ages, I broke them
about two inches above the wrist with the hammer, smashed the bones
really, rather than broke them, had to roll him over and kind of
stand on his arms to actually hack them off. Awkward, but anyway,
there they were. He chewed his nails. I taped him up. As soon as he
came to I waved his right hand but he was gone again. Con cleaned
out his bowl of water, and I took him back to the cottage, he liked
a doze after lunch. I locked him in.

When I went back up the man was awake again. He didn't look as if
he had much life in him. I untied the gag, and pulled out the flannel I'd
stuffed his mouth with and stood back. I thought the man might say
something, beg maybe, I had no idea what to expect. But all he did was
make this inarticulate noise and shake his head. I supposed he'd lost his
voice screaming silently all this time. I said, 'I'm going to cut your head
off next, just in case your body is found. Dental records.' His eyes
looked as if they were going to burst, 'Don't worry,' I said, 'I'm
going to knock you out first, you won't feel a thing.' Tears began
to roll from those bloodshot eyeballs. I stuck the carving knife
into the ground where he could see it and picked up the hammer. I
looked into his eyes and I said, 'She won't remember your face.'
He mouthed something. I went up close and then I saw it. A raw
swollen purplish stump. He'd bitten off his tongue. I'd have to
find it before it got dark - unless that greedy bastard had got there
first. The man began to sway back and forth, gurgling nonsense.
I sank the hammer into his forehead.

The phone call came later that night. Next morning two men arrived
early and took away the torso. I found the tongue when I was boxing
him up, it had landed behind the old watering can. Don't know what
made me look there. I had another phone call a couple of days later.
It was the detective in charge of the investigation. He said the girl
was making good progress. She said the last thing she remembered
before the medics knocked her out was something cold touching
her skin, and something warm and wet licking her. That would be
my dog, I said, he licks everybody.

BURNING TOAST



Hand on hip, tongue in cheek,
At the bar imbibing Guinness,
Bearded poet addressed his thirst.


'I laughed,' he said, ' ...at first.'


In the room sipping lips susurrated, .
Owly eyes in mirrors boggled,
Nobody moved, nothing stirred.


' ...wurze failed me,' the poet slurred.

ONE LESS 


Grey rain persisted so there was no dawn. Instead, a lessening of night.
Sad birds crooned unseen, and a dog barked, once. In the distance, trains
began monotonous shuttling. The street was unkempt and most of the houses
were drear. Mysterious doorbells studded the porches, paint peeled around
dusty pockmarked windows, oddly curtained, and against the fencing there
were numbered dustbins with decrepit lids. An electric milkman floated,
flitting door to door. There was almost a smell of decomposition, and always,
half heard, the sound of waste flushing.

In one of the rooms the dead man woke. He lay staring at the wall opposite
his bed, a moment uncertain where he was. On the floor beside him a flat
bottle quite dry and an open book. Morning light seeped through carelessly
drawn shades. Outside, doors slammed, cars started, runners drummed,
more dogs barked, and some birds sang. There were few children.

The dead man came out and began to walk, at pavement's edge, head bowed,
hands deep, avoiding contact. The rain redoubled. When he reached the main
thoroughfare he glanced about him, watching for an opportunity to cross. A
manic pedestrian knocked him into the path of a speeding car that struck him
so hard his back snapped. Passers-by soon gathered to stare at the body
lying broken in the gutter. Those with umbrellas raised them and raindrops
sparkled on the black shroud.

THE BIG AFFAIR



Wayne led the parade twirling his baton, delighting the cheering
crowd; posters everywhere depicted colourful scenes in the big top,
though Wayne was himself a monochrome figure. It was a large part
of his charm. Clowns cavorted as clowns will, trapeze artists
posed, and the usual cages contained pacing lions, tigers, and
a single black panther couchant.

A family of seals occupied a glassed in pool on a flatbed truck.
Two giraffes swayed in their specially adapted open top double
decker bus, and Tom, Dick and Harry the dog act, all frilly
collars and pointed hats, walked along on their hind legs, barking,
getting in the way of the horses in all their finery. Not that fine,
mind, it was only a small circus, but the girls riding them looked
pretty in high boots and red, green, and purple costumes.

Wayne strolled on at the head of the parade, now and again
turning to wave at someone in the crowd. Anyone really, he knew
good Public Relations did Wayne though you couldn't tell from
looking at him. As they turned the corner by the Town Hall for the
return leg he heard his name called and a shiver ran up and down
his spine. Hardly daring to look, he turned his head and there she
was, blonde and beautiful in a bright blue dress. The world stopped,
disappeared for long minutes as the two of them looked deep into
each other's eyes.

The procession began to back up and Major Culpepper marching
along behind Rafiq the Berber dromedary, cracked his whip,
and the two star crossed lovers came back down to earth. As he
gathered himself, Wayne could feel his cheeks aglow. He turned
for a last look at her, winked and did a little fourstep. How he loved
to dance. They had met at the Annual Masquerade in the big city
and that night as they embraced it seemed as though destiny brought
them together, but it was not to be. He had his work, of course,
and she was a married woman. They had one glorious night
of wild, almost impossible passion. Somehow it just happened.
She couldn't stop herself. Or him. Although his wild lovemaking
hurt her, it was what she wanted from him. His long probing
caresses took her to the brink over and over, until at last they
lay there, exhausted but content.

They could hardly bear to part the next morning but eventually it
was time for her to leave for the hospital. Days later, she called him
to say goodbye and wish him well. Their brief fling was over. It
wasn't long before she was able to walk unaided again, walk back
to reality, without him. It was all so long ago.

Now, as the procession moved on Wayne had to accept it was the
last time they would see each other. Next day, after the second
show, he was packing his trunk and leaving the circus, finally, for the
far off forests of his homeland to take up an important new post as
a logging consultant. Whatever else might happen to him, at least Wayne
was certain, in his heart of hearts, that he would never ever forget her,
his Cecilia.

JESUS LOVES YOU 



Ten years
Since I saw you
This drunk
With your head
In the toilet
Upchucking
Like a lady sure
On your knees
Crying out Jesus
Like you do
In these extremes
Oh Jesus
I hear you moan
Nothing like
A good Catholic girl
I always say
Jesus loves you
Every one
Here drink this
Oh Jesus
It's only water
There that's better
Try standing up
That's my good girl
Lean on me
And think of Jesus
Like you do
In these extremes
I'd carry you
But my back is out
If you remember
From turning the fridge
Upside down
Like you told me
Oh Jesus
Hey don't worry
The agony
Is worth the ecstasy
Of course
I didn't take
A picture
The flash you saw
Was Jesus
Come to save you
Trust me
Here hold my hand.

 HEROES


Seamus and me, we're meeting Vince today, going over to the port,
shoot a couple of ships, do the rounds.

I say to Seamus, 'You know, he's better  these last few months,
more like his old self.'

We're doing 110 on the A12, passing eighteen-wheelers sucking
at us and I'm now absolutely certain that white car up ahead is the
dawn patrol on a late shift. My foot sinks deeper and deeper into the
carpet but we're still doing a ton, and Seamus says, 'He was always
fockin mad, sure, why would he change?'


"There's no answer to that," I think, "fucking mad the pair a them, and
me with this one about to die."


We hit the brakes and shed sixty mph in three seconds, dive into the
roundabout, the Jag squatting hard, squealing gently, squirting fast out of
the exit past the white car, not Old Bill but a new Beemer full of ladies
who lunch, in hats, and Seamus waves.


'He sounds cheerful enough on the phone,' I say.


'Would we shag 'em all if they asked, what?'


'He said he was thinking of going back to work, nothing heavy, maybe
local.'

'I could find him something, sure,' Seamus says, as we pull up outside
Vince's place. His old mum lets us in, kisses all round, tea and hot
toast, and packed lunches for the boys.


"Nothing changes," I think, "Only Vince, every day."


He doesn't say much, never does now, but he looks really well today, eyes
quizzical, and Seamus flirts with Herself, "No, just like old times," I think,
and Vince says, 'Come on, let's be going.'


More kisses and we leave, the three boys, again, and Seamus throws the
keys to Vince, "Jeeezus Fucking Christ," I think, "They are fucking mad."
It's four miles to the port, and Vince drives like a vicar doing his rounds
only slower. Seamus is in the back and I catch them looking at each other in
the mirror, eyebrowing.


We spend the day out on the river, and it's like it used to be, like it was
when Vince and Seamus and me came down here to shoot ships, riding down
from London at five in the morning, death defying, the bikes screaming louder
than us and Vince taking risks you would hardly believe. I looked over at them,
heads together, doing talking about me, nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Fuckers,
if it wasn't for me they'd be dead, nearly.

They were fast. Oh, I could ride, don't get me wrong, but I'm sane. We'd ride
out to the coast maybe, early start, and they'd be 3,4,5 miles ahead of me most
of the time. I'd catch up at cafes and they'd be downing the last of their drinks,
coincidentally, just as I rode in. They'd wait for me, checking watches and when
I finished we'd mount up and they'd loiter so I'd take off first into the traffic.
Yeah, you know it, couple of miles and I'd clock them in my mirrors, flashing.
They never just overtook me. Opportunities would go by and they'd be there,
in line, in my mirrors. Ahead would appear a ten year old Sierra in the outside
lane doing exactly 70. I don't have to tell you, do I?

The crash happened one summer evening. They were gone, and I would catch
the occasional glimpse of them on straights. I leaned into a long right hander and
straightened out to see a big Merc van across the road rammed into the barrier,
a fire taking hold in the engine, both bikes under it. I stopped, dropped my bike
and ran towards the accident. I could see Seamus' boots and as I pulled them
a gob of oily flame dropped onto him. I got him out and rolled him until the
flames went out. It was raging under the van. Vince was on his back, fire sputtering
on his melting visor. I dragged him out and wrapped the helmet with my jacket.
Police and ambulance guys appeared and I passed out.

I was discharged the next day, Seamus a couple of days later. Vince wasn't so
lucky. He had burns to his hands, his upper body, not too bad, but his head and
face needed a lot of work, and a lot of time. Three years later, when he knew
what his face was going to look like, he began to change. He spent most of his
time gaming, put on weight, stopped answering his phone. He's getting there, sure,
and he's OK with us. Plastic surgery is sorting him out but he's never going to be
as pretty as he was. Mind, he's going to be a pain when he realizes, as his injuries
are healing, that he's taking on a certain heroic, dashing mien . . ..

I felt in my pocket for the spare keys. It's always me drives us home. I'm the oldest.

SLIM VOLUMES


I'd spent the morning at the Commonwealth Institute. Well, not all
morning but let's not dwell on it. So, having an hour to myself before lunch,
I thought I would wander over and take a look at Albert, in his new coat.

The High Street is always a good stroll, into Kensington Road and
then along Kensington Gore, with the Gardens on your left, and there,
the Royal Albert Hall looming, across the road. I was about to turn
left into Alexandra Gate when I was astonished to see my old friend
... call him 'Eustace' - he's one of those Englishmen, getting out of
a cab opposite me. I wasn't that surprised, sure, just that he looked
absolutely bloody marvelous, which was in itself a shock. He had on
grey slacks and a blazer in that stuff Jaeger sells to the tourists,
cashmere, nearly.

We shook hands and I saw that his were quite exquisitely manicured. I
could hardly believe it. The last time I'd seen him he was crawling up
the down escalator at Leicester Square wearing one shoe and a tall hat
with 10/6 on a card in the band and he was shouting obscenities at the
theatre crowds until he rolled over in a dead faint and I helped him
onto the train to Highgate slipping a fiver into his pocket for cab
fare.

The Albert Memorial has just been restored, as you know, newly gilded
and given a thorough makeover. Not before time, you might think, if you
cared about these things; anyway, there we were, me and 'Eustace' on a
bright Autumn morning looking up at the Prince Consort in all his new
glory. I didn't say anything to 'Eustace' about his own renewal but it
was in the air - you know? Your man was a vision. I mean to say, he put
the Prince Consort to shame.

I could hardly say no when 'Eustace' offered to buy me lunch. We took
a bracing walk along the Serpentine, past the restaurant, and made our
way across Hyde Park Corner to Piccadilly and down to Soho. It was odd
that neither of us mentioned the recent tragedy, 'Eustace' especially.
He had always had a lot to say about the Poet Laureate, none of it com-
plimentary, and he knew I was no admirer of the fellow's work. Turned
out 'Eustace' had a new book out, in time for Christmas, another one
of his slim volumes of gentrified verses for the new genteel. He had
found his niche, his hollow, let's be honest, and he was stuck in it.
He taught at one of those glass menageries in North London, contract
lecturing he called it. He had a big house on the wrong side of Highgate
Hill and a small wife whose civil service salary kept them in comfort.
He'd given up the drink, on doctor'd orders, he said. Overnight, he said.
Six years ago. Fuck me, I said.

Today, we had a good lunch, a sober lunch, and talked about the old
days. I reminded him, I always did, about how he was the one who had
introduced us all to the IBM Golf Ball, all those years ago, and how
we changed the world overnight, only nobody knew. We parted about
three o'clock, promising to write, like we used to, and I walked away
down Shaftesbury Avenue. I couldn't help thinking that poetry can just
about ruin a man, if he isn't careful.

SMOKING REMAINS



A loud noise at lunchtime wakes me and I wonder - what the fuck? WW11
UXB apparently someone stood on it by mistake is the news. Oh well time
I was up anyway so why worry about some poor slob even now meeting with
his maker of whom the less said etc may he rest in peace notwithstanding
nobody knows his name or number he just moved in the man not the maker
with his wife and dog.

I perform that dour deliberation so redolent of the gentleman and shine
my shoes of course a trick I picked up at school. Slipper to the kitchen
initiating proceedings there knocking over a mug of coffee I was about
to sip blast now I'll have to make another look at the bloody time I'm
nothing like ready to go can't seem to shrug off this hunch of sobriety
surely bending my back. I notice I'm not shaking today nearly vibrations
must have tuned in to my wavelength and smoothed it out so the scattered
man didn't die in vain. Only passing strange he should choose that very
moment to tread on a slug that exploded? Idle speculation loading sling
bag with books I borrowed in the porous hope of enlightenment leaving no
tome unlearned but what I want to know is - what has literature the fuck
to do with life? And how does one avoid it? Scrambled eggs is the answer
as is so often the case.

Where was I? Oh yes on my way out like a light fantastic tripping down
the road to the library not the pub where the world goes alas ah listen
I will hie me home sober and OD on Casablanca tonight. Sobriety becomes
me I do say broken liver aside on the whole not to be too peculiar about
it without prejudice yes I do say sobriety suits me rather well hell a
summer without gin who needs it - is that right? No not me not I no beer
either mind neither wine. Still. There's always walking in the rain.

Passing the place where the bang occurred I resist the urge to applaud.
Who knows your man might be there in spirit his flesh is flecking the
wall spirals of blue ascending his wife howling the dog cowering large
fluorescent men scooping up his smoking remains and I think yeah ain't
it the truth as I hurry by holding my nose there's always some fucker
worse off than yourself.

WRITING AMY 


The beginning was inevitable. Amy sat down at her desk to write. She
had a groovy leather chair and sometimes she sat in it naked, most often
when she was a little drunk. She could trust the chair. Not like some
people. Some people were rats, they fucked with her life, as only rats
can fuck with a twenty eight year old life. She liked to tell herself
that, even though it wasn't true. Life is just a bowl of cherries for
a twenty eight year old and she was only blaming the rats because they
were men. Amy knew how to have a really manic hangover. It was one of
the things she did well, that and PMS. She smoked too, but nobody's
perfect.

 So, Amy was at her desk, writing - writing poetry because she thought
that was all she could do, she had no idea how to write a short story.
Nothing seemed to happen to her that she couldn't cover in a poem.
Sometimes when she was out drinking with her friends, not all of whom
were rats, she had ideas for poems and they swam around in her head,
like ideas do. Life has its compensations and sometimes Amy maybe got
laid. She was twenty eight years old, after all, and it was at these
times she thought that life was the bowl of cherries she'd heard about.
This was one of those times. This has to be one of those stories because
this is one of those times when Amy is sitting naked in her leather
chair sipping cold beer from a glass in the middle of the day. Sometimes
a poem is not enough.

Amy sat naked in her groovy leather chair writing poems about vege-
tables she had known. It was as though the rats didn't exist. She was
alone with her thoughts, at her desk, sitting in her groovy leather
chair. She could feel the chair, warm as blood, soft as lips, and as
smooth as the insides of her thighs. She watched as a bead of moisture
started to roll down the side of her glass. When it was half way down
she picked up the glass with her thumb and middle finger and raised it
so it was about so far from her face. Then she gently pushed with her
naked toes gripping the carpet. The chair rolled back. Amy sank into the
leather, her legs stretched out, the glass exactly centred as the drop-
let grew minutely, becoming heavier, and at last it stopped, quivering
and flashing light. It was warm in the room and Amy could hardly bear
the waiting. She closed her eyes, leaned back a little. Her hand trem-
bled. It was enough to break the tension. She didn't see the tiny globe
leap from the glass, but she felt it burst, just below her navel. She
couldn't tell where it disappeared to, her skin was so hot, but she
didn't mind. She wrote a poem about it in the end.