and it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time

What is en equal response to that?

Words do not often fail me. But we did not need them at that moment. I couldn't interrupt to talk, could hardly breathe to breathe, let alone speak. Sounds? Yes.

An urgency at first; tearing clothes, not caring as we walked out in the morning light, exposed and wanting the world to see the bare flesh.

Unusual surfaces, countertops and tiled floors, your perfect skin. A waterfall, wet skin on skin, soaked kisses, water running down my arms to where my hands could just not reach but did. Nails dug in, trying to hurt to plant our feet back on the ground.

Slow? Yes. Perfect, without a need to try make it more because it was an absolute. Transcendence of the physical, the climatic euphoria.

Arched back trying to bring me closer to you, you held me up as I tilted my head back, gasping. Biting, scratching until we bled what we felt. My hands clutching my hair and then yours as your tongue found hollows.

And then of course you had to find the last one and yes, we fitted perfectly. Like wires. Awkwards legs wrapped around you, and it only lasted a night but seemed an eternity. Breath on breath, biting lips, your fingers between my teeth, your palms pressed against my mouth and again, that hollow.The lips and hair and hollows and legs and cold feet that never once looked back were all yours. In the apex, levitating it seemed as you read me perfectly and yes, you could see my eyes in the darkness.

Your name was written all over my arms as we both fell back and still held onto one another, unbelieving of perfection, the apex of the rapture.

We never once used the word "sex".

all you want is a ticket to ride after you show me everything

You trampled my words,

stomping on them with your old

size sevens.

But I forget

and mistake

your

triple six

for a holy

one.

You promised to eat

my sadness,

devouring my innocence instead

as you made love

to the

idea

of me:

an unrequited

desire for my thoughts.

And now?

You tiptoe

silently

across my grave,

dancing above the ground suspending my memory.

Shooting up your obscenities

as I sell my sobreity,

my clear-cut conscience,

my unwavering consent.

in the back of the woods in the dark of the night

Something was wrong.

In fact that fickle, poetic past tense does

No justice to what it and what was,

For these crimes go on.

Something is out of joint.

Even the chickens flap furiously in disabled flight,

The threadbare donkeys trod nervously out of sight

As all come in view of the breaking point.

The zenith storms near.

Bare feet thunder away from the vicious tempest

That kicks up the thirsting land and seeks no rest.

Pure Fear.

It gnaws at bodies famined and weak.

Leaded legs and heads and hearts

Destitute from the very start-

The mild, powerless to raise the meek.

Who has committed murder?

Frozen on the ground, his dead eyes

Stare candidly into mine.

No eyes will look further.

Lizards twitch anxiously at every shot

That splits the vacant sky and

Its indifferent air above its uncaring land

That burns with passion I lack not.

The passion of a heart riddled with good intent,

Reeking like an offensive corpse of

A lack of conviction this can be solved

With mere passion, never spent.

There are no means and but one end

To these regrettable deaths

Who thrive on our empty threats

For this to be mend.

Who has gotten away with murder?

Surely not I, with my pen, so powerless

Doing nothing but crowing of my prowess.

Surely not the West

Surely not the best

Who lack all conviction

This fiction

Discernéd.

packing up on site, two thousand rooms

It was an immediate connection. A smile, a firm handshake and without realising we understood, kept the barkeep up later than usual with exchanges.

Mistakes. Mathematics. Music.

I do not feel twelve years between us. I am not sure if I feel older or you younger. Perhaps we meet one another perfectly in the middle.

And there was no solution and I've been awake all day

I had a dream about you today. A broad daylight dream, from which I woke with a start. There was no confusion about what it was though; you had been concerned and so I knew it was not real. You asked when I was leaving and I told you that I was already gone. I had a heart, tied to a chain, wrapped around my wrist and hooked on a broken branch so that I dangled with my feet just above the ground, squinting down and trying desperately to read the words you had scribbled amongst the crumbling roots.

I lie on one side as though you are still here, reading aloud and being unashamedly obscure. My purple sheets stained red with royalty, two colours too old to blend.

I am not haunted by what happened. I am haunted by a past that never came about. I am dwelling endlessly and aimlessly in what was and whatmighthavebeen.

But you are the then and even I do not hate myself enough to allow into my now. I may gnaw for years to come on that obstinate chain, but when I and my leaded heart drop to the ground I will trample your words with my bare feet, scramble the letters, scoop them up and carry them home like a stray. Someday, though it may not be soon, I will turn your bitter misery into art.

well, heaven must have sent you to save me from the rapture

Sitting atop a notably high lifesaver’s chair in the very centre of the city is a girl of nine years. Nobody could tell her why it was there and the paint was still wet, but she thought the candy red against the powdery blue sky too tempting, and she craved a better view.

Below: a boy and a girl. Rather, a lady, for she was 21 and while she felt herself no longer a ‘girl’, she thought ‘woman’ made her sound fat. And rather, a guy, for he was undoubtedly no longer a boy, but ‘man’ made her too aware of the fact that he was more than a decade older than her.

They met at the same place. Halfway through, after watching one another frown behind their lenses and cigarettes, they shook hands and each said the other’s name respectively. They had anticipated meeting one another, knowing all along their hearts belonged to someone they had yet to have met, respectively. Together they sat until sunrise, with cheap coffee, soft music, more cigarettes, waiting for the sun to come up because then the world would know what they had always known.

From there, it was like any other story. Every story of love and life and lyrics is invariably a mirror of every other: We are born, we live. As we age we get married, we get a home loan, we get wrinkles, we get promoted, we get divorced, we get cancer, we get progressively more listless until we are so sick of lying that we die. All of the holding hands, sunrise, sunset, kissing, sex, the perfect curve, mistakes, make-up, break-ups, wake-up calls at dusk, the crying infants and the new furniture. All of the happiness, the very quotidian continuity that happens by anticipation, happens. All of this while somewhere across the globe, just outside of where the girl can see, a child dies of starvation. Roses bloom and pennies drop, teenagers have unsafe sex in ignorance, students graduate, drug addicts fall in gutters, a Catholic boy holds his girlfriend’s hand while she has a backalley abortion where the streetlights have already gone out.

They waited for something to go wrong, as it would. All factors pointed them apart, not star-crossed but cock-eyed and so likely to fail. A desire, a prostitution of a free mind, a wish that they were generic beings genetically programmed to fit into one another like wires.

But the sun came up and the world knew but never really cared. The baby never cried again, another never would. Their fingers grew stiff from exposure and eventually they died too. It was the first beautiful death in history; a sunset, a pair, a song on repeat, and two hands that never let go, despite the lingering expectation of the inevitable, the wait for life to occur as it promised it would.

Was the question a point? I don't want your love.

A tube station, in any city. At the back of the stage, leaning against a wall, there are two beggars. One has his head against the wall, chin tilted up and mouth open, sleeping. The other is lying on his back, holding a paper cup. Overhead there are muffled sounds of the station: people talking, the sound of the tube, overheard announcements and footsteps. These begin quite loudly, and then gradually fade to a more hushed noise. In the centre of the stage is a bench. On it lies a girl, seemingly sleeping. She is lying in the foetal position, stirs slightly now and then but otherwise remains still. Her back is turned to the audience. She wears dark, loose-fitting winter clothing. By her side, on the ground, is a small canvas bag and a teacup made of glass. It is half-filled with a clear liquid. When the noise quietens down, a screen switches on, taking up all of the back wall of the stage. The image is of poor quality, giving the sense that it is seen by webcam. It is of a radio presenter, hosting a show that is mostly an interactive discussion with listeners, but also plays music. Though he is looking at the audience, one gets the sense that he is unaware of the mechanism ‘filming’ him. Behind him one sees a few Christmas decorations in the studio. An upbeat Christmas carol fades out and behind him a red light comes on. It reads ‘on air’.

Chris: That was ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ taking us into the second hour of the show. It is five minutes after eight and you’re with me Chris Mason on Talk Tonight. We’re taking calls now and finding out what you are doing on this Christmas Eve are you happy or maybe you’re sad and if that’s the case we want to make you better.

[connects a telephone line] Talk to me you’re on Talk Tonight!

[Every time the show title is mentioned, a short jingle of four notes rings out.]

Caller [female]: Hi, Chris! I just want to say I love the show.

Chris: [chuckling] Why thank you ma’am you sound in good spirits what are you doing for Christmas Eve?

Caller: I’m at home with my husband and my two children, and I just want to say that, Derek, Stephy and Andy, I love you all very much, and thank you for everything.

Chris: Lovely well it sounds like you are having a splendid time and I hope it continues so for the rest of the festive season. [looks down and presses two buttons] Talk to me you’re on Talk Tonight!

Caller II [male]: Hey, Chris, my man! How are you tonight? My name is Rob!

Chris: Nice to meet you Rob you sound like you’re in a good mood what are you doing tonight?
Caller II: I’m back at home now. My girlfriend and I just had dinner with my folks and now I’m off to the bedroom to unwrap my present...

Chris: Sounds like that could get dirty you kids have fun then and remember to stay safe. [presses the two buttons again] Talk to me you’re on Talk Tonight!

Caller III [female]: [softly] Hello?

Chris: Why hello there young lady who may we say is calling and what are you doing on this fine Christmas Eve?

Caller III: How can you be so sure that I am young? And why is my name of any consequence to you? You will forget it as soon as it leaves my lips.

Chris: Ooh a feisty one we have here so what are you doing on this Christmas eve’ which special people are you sharing it with?

Caller III: Actually, I’m alone.

Chris: Well that’s no good now!

Caller III: Isn’t it better to be alone, than to keep company for the sake of avoiding solitude? To share in loneliness does not negate loneliness necessarily. People have long outgrown being herd animals. We have long outgrown being animals, and even sex isn’t supposed to be had on two legs. The only action carried out better on two legs not four is acting. I’ll choose solitude over headaches, thank you.

Chris: And judging by the festivities going on around town there will be many headaches in the morning!

[Three young boys walk past. They were loose clothing and hoods covering most of their faces. One of them is carrying a music player, which plays a hip-hop track that can be faintly heard. They stop behind and to the left of the bench, facing the crowd, whispering to one another. One walks around the bench, peering first at the girl and then at her bag. He looks right suddenly with a slight start as if hearing a noise. He beckons to the others and they exit at the side they entered]

So what do you want to talk about then I know elections have been just been so why don’t you tell us did you vote?

Caller III: No.

Chris: Well that’s no good now and why not?

Caller III: Well, why should I vote? Yes, I agree that participating in politics is to an extent a civil duty, the involvement supposedly turning us into ‘sophisticated citizens’. But it is also a decision, one that needs to be informed. So many people vote for the sake of voting, and we end up choosing the party we disagree with least and cross off all the rest. We can’t find a party we agree with most, and yet we still vote. Why? Because we are that way programmed and it very conveniently puts in the position where we can complain about everything that is not to our liking, justifying our passive aggressiveness by the fact that we did our civil duty! The democrats are a combination of the old totalitarians who, despite all denial, remain racist and terrified of the majority. The majority must rule, and no reasoning can justify anything else. The freedom fighters once stood for something honourable, their cause ridden with corruption and driven by a myriad of individuals striving only to further their own interest. And communism is an ideal, an absolute. It does not exist and it never will, so why vote for a fantasy that will always remain suspended in that state?

[Throughout all of this, Chris keeps opening his mouth in an attempt to interrupt and make a point. Later, he glances continually at papers before him and his wristwatch, then tries to interrupt as if in an attempt to end the call altogether. However, he does not succeed. Towards the end of the speech he simply listens, becoming more shocked and dismayed by the onslaught of words from the anonymous caller.]

So, really, what is the point of it all? In fact, what is the point of anything at all? I am not angry because I am alone, so you can forget about throwing about your chauvinistic pseudo-concern and suggestions that I need a boyfriend. I am perfectly happy alone and perhaps not all of us need to get married and have children! I mean, the world is overpopulated as it is! Global warming and all of the environmental scares- we have it all wrong! It’s not the end of the Earth, it’s the end of humankind. Remember, the Earth has been through ice ages and the coming of Christ. So don’t save the planet! Save the human. Or better, don’t. Why not leave us to our own devices and watch as our wasteful lifestyles blow up in our beautiful faces? What is the point of it all? We get up, we drive to work to pay for our car, we pay for our car to drive to work. We get married and put bread on the table for someone we never really chose, and we have to not only have children, but love them too. What if they are truly stupid or ugly or just plain mean-spirited? I know you’re shocked. Because many people are thinking it, but few will stand up and say it. The truth is there is no truth, and if the purpose of life is not to make ourselves happy we have denied all reason and we are simply heading toward the end of an era of human rule.

[The girl on the bench rolls over and stands up, holding a cellphone to her ear. The caller’s voice now comes from her, not a telephonic voiceover. She assumes a strong stance, her voice raised but not quite shouting.]

So there’s your Christmas message: like this holiday, and your mindless talkshow I so mindlessly dialled, nothing has any purpose and even if it does, we have missed it entirely. So kiss your loved ones like you mean it, and tell them how you feel it. They might die tomorrow, and you might too! Merry Christmas, and to all a good night.

[The screen flickers and blacks out and a call-ended dial tone is heard. The girl looks at ther cellphone, then puts it in her pocket. She glances over her shoulder, then collects her bag, exiting stage right. As she begins to walk out, Oasis’ ‘Talk Tonight’ is heard overheard. The song plays right through. When it stops, the station noises are heard faintly, the volume increasing gradually. Lights out, and over the station noises a clock strikes nine times.]

Penny for the thoughts behind your disguise

A day like any other. Summertime with its unbearable heat which I love, and the new academic year had just begun. Class was as unexciting as always, and I sat with my head to one side, a half-smile giving away that I was certainly interested in something. But it was not guerrilla warfare or colonisation in all their fascinating tactics that had me engrossed. Even I was not sure exactly what it was, but there was an intangible thing or thought that had taken my mind gently by the hand and led me away to a far more beautiful place. I scribbled mindlessly on blank paper, words and music and images streaming from me like an unstoppable flow of blood. It all made no sense at all until years later when we looked back and comprehended for the first time just what we were back now.

We strolled outside at the sound of quarter-to, our hands shooting straight to our skew fringes to block out the sun. It was mercilessly bright, but at the same time it was more dull than usual. The countryside had been burning for days on end and even those we thought could help were seemingly powerless, perhaps useless, in clearing the air. It lay thick and low, like a person hovering over our shoulders, breathing into our ears with stale breath. We waited for it to end or spread to our doorsteps. Until then we brushed soot off our shoulders and tried to continue as we always did, while we breathed in flakes of ash and coughed up blood for the earth’s burning skin.

A normal day, as any other, except that we could see nothing.

and the weather changes not halfway between your house and mine

Wire planes and million-point stares dangle
aimlessly above my head,
suspended firmly by the thread
of my imagination, my memories, the dreams
of what was and what might have been,
your being in my thoughts, hopelessly tangled.

We stayed in bed all the day
while we were bathed by the light of morning
that cleansed our thighs, adorning
our feet as I lost myself in the maze of your hair
that blanketed me softly in the cool night air
as I drank in the words you needed to say.

And now just your memory remains,
floating before me like a lingering ghost
you are to me, who loved you most
and more than any other, remaining now in the dark on the floor.
I stare miserably through the crack in the door,
Shifting dreams but not the pains.

lapping currents lay your boat to the ground

I am an island. I am the utopian mound of which all have only seen pictures, surrounded by sea. And you are the surrounding sea. You are that unfathomably deep blue that keeps me away from the others. Your current is what keeps me apart, what makes me shy away from the rest of the world. Your constant shifting pushes me back when I reach out to any other; it is only you who will keep me afloat.

I am a prisoner of the very thing that keeps me from going under. But the days are getting warmer and as the temperature rises, so the water does too. I can still breathe through my nose, but soon it will all be too much and I will be washed over, washed under and drowned by your ever-changing you. I will sink to the very bottom of you, and stare past the surface into the glare of another unknown, unending blue. I cannot breathe underwater, much less with your weight on top of me. I cannot swim with my legs open and my hands are tied as my head rests in my hands because I cannot pray without them.

just let go and listen to the songs that make you stop and listen

Ten years. Three months. Three weeks and four days. That is, if you include this one. More than ten years ago you pulled a woman from the wreckage, her brittle bones crumbling away under your arduous weight. You never intended to survive but as it turns out fate has always ignored your pleas and preferences, as you did mine.

I, the wreck, sit silently in pensive nowhereness with wire airplanes and million-point stars dangling above my head, suspended by the unbreakable threads of my imagination. It shapes my reality, propelled by a force I can neither name nor explain, but which takes the shape of a you-shaped black hole right where my very being once was.

I am delving too deeply, going beyond the beyond, where I am able to breathe. The pressure makes my head swell and my ears burst with the pain of truth and speculation mixed forcibly into a poisonous concoction I would wish no one to drink. And when I finally reach the other side of your thoughts, where you sit alone and dead in a soulless sleep, I will bring you back from them. I will carry you from there and bring you back to here, if only I can ever understand.

Pardon me for all I have ever thought and dreamt and wished. All I ever wanted was for you to listen.