It’s only subtle. Insidious may be a better word. But I’m finding it increasingly difficult to string more than a few sentences together these days. I have not failed in a writing competition for quite a while, however, having opted for the financially prudent tactic of not entering one.
I have scratched out a few lines that occasionally pretend to rhyme in response to others. But they are definitely getting worse, having already started from a low base.
But here’s some of them anyway, just for the record.
****
A nautical fellow named Frank
Took to sea in an old water tank
In there he hid
‘Till he opened the lid
And it filled full of water and sank.
*
There’s a spider crawling on the wall
I hear you calling will it fall
Upon the bed? Such dread
Spreads through your head
That with eight legs might thus be wed
I hear you thinking after all
That you might hold me close instead
Now on the floor a herd of ants
A military style advance
A target deep within your pants
And plans to make you squeal and dance
Should I upon them promptly prance?
Or give the beasts a fighting chance?
On the ceiling paint is peeling
Dirt concealing mould
There’s bugs there’s gnats
On filthy mats
The rats are getting bold
Before you kneeling. Still appealing
My love. You’re feeling old
No wheeling, dealing. No time worth stealing
Please give me healing from the cold
*
Poetry, as we all knows
Is for them, that don’t do prose
A platform for artistic rage
A mess of words thrown at the page
To let the reader rearrange
What might at first seem deeply strange
With meanings hidden from first view
The reader gives them life anew
It’s like my drawer of underwear
You’ll never find a matching pair
Of socks in there, if you should look
It’s just a poem, it’s not a book
But you’ll see better what I say
If you politely look away
And find a more reflective view
Giving credit where no credit’s due
*
Let us speak of magic
Of mysteries within
Of searching through the labyrinth
To end where we begin
Trapped within the chamber
Where we hide our every sin
Where we find what we have lost
Where we lose all that we win
I hear you in the distance
A gentle violin
Your spirit calls, I walk through walls
To reach beneath your skin
*
Grab a bottle, pop the cork
Kindly use a knife and fork
I allow you within my dominion
But I don’t want to hear your opinion
So take a seat, but please don’t talk
*
We sit then we crawl then we walk
Use our hands then a spoon then a fork
Things are progressing
Our parents obsessing
But regretting the first day that we talk
*
There is no proper time or place
Get that flag out of my face
Those precious lives all disappeared
To hide the truth you’ve always feared
To satisfy your petty need
Gorging on your filthy greed
*
Freedom.
a mirage
that grows real
with every second look
Until you walk towards it
And realise that you have imagined
Everything that you thought to be true
And that reality itself is just a mirage
From which you lack the freedom to look away
*****
Are you still reading? No? I thought not. I’ll shut up for another few months.
Sometimes I sit alone, mostly in the mornings, and tap out little responses to things that other people have written and probably thought about a lot more than I have. My responses are trite and disposable.
But I discovered, only this morning, that some have remained stored, namelessly, on my phone. A few have tried to rhyme, but none would dare to describe themselves as poetry.
Anyway, I thought I’d drag a few out and give them another brief moment in the shade.
For no particular reason. And in no particular order.
1.
The sky draws lines in the sky
Paths beyond a grey horizon
Pointing to a sun descended
Into a bottomless ocean
And I, a moth yearning for the light
Am compelled to follow
Even if to drown
2.
Truth is just another lie
Deceit. Betrayal. By and by
It all begins to feel the same
Love and hatred. Pleasure. Pain
A hint of perfume, taste of blood
Emotion. Torture. Famine. Flood
And yet we hunger, dream of when
The cravings might return again
3.
Forest deep, a private chance
Enchanted moment, secret dance
Whispered nothings in her ear
Words of love for her to hear
In the mist they take their place
Lovingly lie face to face
Enchanting, panting brief romance
The snake she feared escapes his pants
4.
On the school bus adorned in a kilt
John felt impressively build
‘Till the girls gave a snigger
“We’ve seen ones much bigger!”
And John felt his confidence wilt
5.
I’m nought but bulk
A burnt out hulk
A waste of space in bed
I’ve passed my prime
I’ve had my time
It’s done for me I dread
I frown and skulk
I turn and sulk
You say it’s in my head
Then you begin. Put skin to skin
Inhibitions shed
And in your eyes, that old surprise
A book so long I’ve read
You smile, you dance
I laugh. I prance
Again we’re newly wed
6.
I met this American dude
Loud and unblinkingly rude
Geriatric fanatic
Dumb psychopathic
Ugly, unhinged and unglued
7.
Lend me your arm
Let me borrow your calm
Shelter me during the night
Lend me your hand
Help me understand
That what’s wrong, may one day be right
Touch me again
In the wind and the rain
As the waves wash over our past
Let me mould with your form
As we weather the storm
As together we cling to the mast
What was over can start
If you lend me your heart
When again we catch sight of the land
When our ship comes to shore
You will love me once more
And together we’ll sleep on the sand
8.
Just a little dalliance
One night. Or was it day?
Just a little itch
That wouldn’t go away
A little game of hide and seek
Harmless children’s play
A sweaty little dance
A roll amongst the hay
We’d lost our minds. We’d lost our shirts
And much to my dismay
You also found me lost for words
But what was I to say?
If you could find room in your heart
I’ll make it up some way
What price for your forgiveness?
Would you have me pay?
9.
I owe you an apology
And I come to you to pay it
It might be that I love you
But I didn’t mean to say it
I tried to stay aloof
‘cause that’s the way you like to play it
Now you’ve had your proof
Though words should never sway it
So my cards are on the table
There’s no other way to lay it
My mind was in control
Before I let my heart betray it
10.
Freedom.
a mirage
which grows real
with every second look
Until you walk towards it
And realise that you have imagined
Everything that you thought to be true
And that reality itself is just a mirage
For which you lack the freedom to ignore
That’s enough. You’ve probably stopped reading by now.
This has been going on a long time. I keep entering and failing. For those who don’t know (most of you, I suppose) the competition is restricted by a time limit, a maximum word count and parameters of genre/character/topic. In this case I was assigned suspense/a shepherd/ clogged.
I don’t want to harp on about it but ….clogged????
I gave up and handed it to Alicia, my alter-ego and confidante
And this is what she spat out.
The Sea Shepherd
We’ve done everything we can, Susan,” the doctor said. “It will be only a matter of weeks. I can offer to help with something to ease the pain. I’m so deeply sorry.”
“Are you?” She stood, taking the prescription, and making way for the next patient. She exited the office without paying the bill and upon arriving out on the street hailed a cab, ordering the driver to find her the most expensive department store in town.
“Looking for something special?” he asked.
“Something to die for.”
She tried on a collection of clothing that she couldn’t possibly afford and knelt to stuff as much of it as she could into her backpack. A handbag lay on the floor in the adjacent cubicle. She reached under the dividing wall and slid it towards herself.
Then she was out the door, screaming. “Somebody tried to rape me in there!” In the ensuing chaos nobody paid attention to the alarm as she passed the scanner. Back on the street she disappeared into the sea of humanity.
An hour later, in her dingy apartment, she examined the contents of the handbag, extracting cash, credit cards and passport. The passport photo, she considered, might pass as a likeness for a healthier, though older, self.
She removed the scarf from her head before undressing and putting on a stolen frock, examining herself in the broken mirror that leaned against the wall. She was horribly gaunt. What remained of her hair was thin and shapeless. The frock looked ridiculous on her, as though somebody had dressed up a Holocaust survivor for an Academy Awards night.
Then, scrolling mindlessly through her phone at the fabricated reality of others, she stumbled upon inspiration. She called the number.
“Tomorrow?” the European voice on the other end was asking, “are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said. “of course I’m sure. I want to go on a cruise tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
“Anywhere else.”
After a silence there was a cautious response. “We have one ultra-luxury cruise going to New Zealand in the morning. It’s a smaller ship, seventy guests in total. Very exclusive. There’s been a last-minute cancellation, but the price is….”
“That’ll do. I don’t care about the price.”
“Sounds like you’ll fit right in, then.”
She booked as Mrs Clara Bowman and paid her fare with an AMEX bearing the same name. New Zealand? Whatever. She was going to die. Might as well do it in style.
She laid the frock out on the bed and packed an old suitcase with whatever else she had stolen, along with underwear, jeans, T-shirts, and more than enough prescription drugs to see the whole thing out. She opened a cheap bottle of bourbon and poured a little of the contents over the passport, further smearing the photo page with a dishcloth.
Later she sat on the balcony with the bottle between her knees, chain-smoking and sending out ambiguous text messages of farewell.
She was in another cab early the next morning and, after leaving a ridiculous tip for the driver, found a porter who escorted her and her baggage to the line for check-in and customs. The official asked her a few basic questions, the answers to which she had memorized and briefly examined her face and the blurred image on her passport.
“My hair and passport have both had a rough time lately,” she explained.
The official simply waved her through.
Once aboard she was greeted by a plastic faced concierge resembling a gameshow host from another era.
“Welcome aboard Mrs Bowman, is this your first voyage with us?”
“As far as I can recall.”
“Our job is to make sure it’s not your last.”
“Good luck with that.” She walked away without accepting the proffered handshake.
She joined the other passengers in the lounge where the Emergency Drill was to be conducted. They stood in small exclusive circles sipping champagne, exchanging insincere compliments and bad jokes. She stood alone in a corner.
She gazed around at glowing faces restored to a monstrous youth by surgery, atop bodies that betrayed reality. She was not in need of company and so had no difficulty choosing to despise each and every one of them.
A cultured weary voice came over the loudspeaker and introduced its owner as Captain Shepherd.
“Good morning, folks. I am Your Shepherd,” the voice said, “and thou shall not want. I thank you in anticipation of your briefly feigned attention for the Emergency Drill. We will be making a short stop just south of here to pick up supplies. All passengers are to remain on board. Following that I will shepherd you to exciting destinations such as, perhaps, you have never experienced.”
The supply stop was indeed short. She sat smoking on her private veranda and watched as the ship anchored and tenders took crew members ashore but was inside examining the contents of the mini bar when the sea began to move beneath her again, seemingly only minutes later.
Her cabin was spacious and appallingly decorated. Her bed had been turned down and there were chocolates and a dried flower arrangement on the bedside table. Her suitcase had been unpacked and clothing artfully arranged on hangers. Her underwear had been folded and packed into drawers. She wondered if somebody might, at any moment, knock on her door and offer to wipe her ass.
On the first night she dined alone in the restaurant. She sat by the window and ordered lobster. She had never eaten lobster before and struggled with technique. Eventually she took the crustacean up in her hands, dissecting it with her fingers. Glances of disgust floated in her direction. As she rose to leave she took the bottle of Chablis from the ice bucket and drank directly from it as staff stood aside and let her pass. “I’m not contagious,” she assured them.
Over the following couple of days and nights she avoided people and people avoided her. It was clear that she had been identified as some sort of imposter from the beginning. She was growing weaker and rarely ventured from her room other than to eat, though she had little appetite for anything other than vodka and pain killers.
On day five of the cruise things began changing dramatically. First it was the sewage system backing up. A woman was screaming in the companionway, “The toilet’s clogged! The toilet’s clogged!” as though venomous snakes had materialised in the bowl.
The issue was the same throughout the entirety of the vessel and, over the PA, Captain Shepherdadvised that, “everyone will just have to hold on,” sounding vaguely amused by the prospect.
The following morning brought warnings of “rough weather ahead….storms on the horizon,” and, within hours, seasickness was assuming epidemic proportions, the stench of human waste gradually overpowering the sickly-sweet aroma of expensive perfume.
Two nights later a lightning strike caused the lights to flicker and die. The swimming pool partially emptied itself and inundated cabins below. All forms of electronic communication went down, phone coverage and internet reception became non-existent.
“I have vitally important calls to make!” protested a man in a safari suit.
“I need to check on my cat!” groaned a blue-haired octogenarian on a walking frame.
The PA had also evidently failed, for no explanation was forthcoming, and when irate passengers ventured out with torches they found that the crew had seemingly vanished. Pounding on the locked door of the bridge prompted no response and demands to “see Captain Shepherd immediately,” went unanswered.
On the final night, within the roaring storm, a series of thuds could be heard below, followed by the sounds of screaming, tortured metal. The ship shuddered for a couple of seconds before falling into silence.
Panic quickly set in and conspiracy theories took hold. The ship had been sabotaged, obviously, and the crew disposed of. Communist terrorists. Massive ransoms demanded for the lives of the of billionaires aboard.
The only food available was that discarded from lunch. Refrigeration had shut down. Starvation, according to her bloated shipmates, was a genuine threat, but she was pleased to find that the main bar, though unstaffed, remained fully stocked. She discovered there, in the gloom, a tall, bearded man , dressed in shorts and Hawaiian shirt helping himself to drinks, so she did the same. As she was selecting a bottle he regarded her thoughtfully before speaking. “Mrs Bowman?” he asked, “how have you enjoyed the trip so far?’
“It’s been a hoot,” she assured him.
But there seemed no further point in the deception so she blurted out the truth, “It’s not Mrs Bowman. My name is Susan Smith and I’m here with a stolen passport and a ticket purchased with a stolen credit card. And I’m dying.” She raised her glass and waved it around the room, “This seems like as good a place as any to do so.”
“Well, that is so much more interesting. I knew that there was something special about you. How far were you planning to get?”
She was surprised to hear that he had even noticed her. She had certainly not noticed him.
“I assumed I’d be thrown off at the first port if I got that far.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about that now.”
“I’m not worried about anything.”
His expression was one of admiration. “It shows.”
“Ice?” he enquired and pushed a tray of it towards her.
She examined the cubes as if being offered a prohibited substance. “where did you get these?”
He simply held a finger to his lips.
“I don’t suppose you know where there’s a functioning toilet?”
He reached into his pocket before pushing a key down the bar. “Deck two. Just forward of the lounge. A door marked ‘crew only.’ Be quiet about it.”
On her return, a bolt of lightning captured her reflection in the window and she was suddenly horrified. Why am I trying to look like them? She tore off her stolen frock and cast it into the ocean.
When she got back to the bar, dressed only in underwear, he was still there. She passed back the key and he acknowledged her only with a nod as she sat down beside him and refilled both of their glasses.
“So just who are you ,then,” she whispered, “and what’s your story?”
“My name is Ian Shepherd.”
“The Shepherd?”
“In the flesh.”
The Shepherd told his tale. He had begun as a cabin steward and worked his way through the ranks before eventual promotion to Captain. By then he had already become hypnotised by the wealth and power of the exclusive brand of passengers he carried. “I was a fool. It all looked so easy. I thought I could be one of them. But the only way into that club is to be born into it.”
He had borrowed enormous sums to invest in real estate. And when rates rose, he borrowed more just to pay the interest. Eventually it had all come crashing down around him. He lost his home and with it his family. All he owned was in a duffel bag in his cabin. And throughout it all he continued serving his masters.
“I was seduced, then I was screwed.” He pointed out beyond the door of the bar, “by the likes of them.”
As if on cue three irate men burst in.
“We’re making a citizen’s arrest,” one of them screamed, pointing at Shepherd, “You and the weirdo – on a charge of piracy! My wife just witnessed somebody throwing a woman’s limp body over the side! What have you done with the Captain? The crew?”
From under the bar Shepherd produced a gun. “The question is – what are we going to do with you?”
“You’re full of surprises,” Susan said after the intruders had hastily withdrawn, “but what haveyou done with the crew?”
“I left most of them ashore at the supply stop. The remainder have been locked in their quarters these last few days and will be released when I need them. Which will be very soon.”
“So, all this is your doing? This is revenge?”
He grinned. “Merely a gesture. Illustrating a point. Separate these people from their telephones and their lawyers and their servants – their notions of superiority, and they are rendered helpless.”
“And their bathrooms?”
“Clogged toilets are certainly a social equaliser. And I’m big on symbolism. These stinking turds can’t stand anything clogging up their own system, but they deliberately clog it up for everyone else. The world is a toilet bowl and they are what’s floating in it.”
“And how symbolic was all that noise earlier?”
He smiled again. “The engines were old. And maybe someone drained the of oil. They were tired of life anyway, and just let go. Blew a hole in the side.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Wouldn’t even if I could. We are already sinking.”
“Wow! More excitement then. Are you planning to drown everyone? Is that not a bit self-indulgent?”
“The world wouldn’t miss them much, but I draw the line at that. The storm will soon pass and we’ll launch the life rafts. Rescue is already on the way. Everyone will be fine.”
“What about you, Ian?”
“This Captain goes down with the ship. But for now, my dear, I have some work to do. It’s best that you return to your cabin and grab whatever is important to you.”
Nothing was important to her. She was very tired. She was ready.
He placed a hand on her shoulder as he stood and walked away. Less than thirty minutes later the PA burst back into life, as a familiar voice announced, “Good evening folks, I am The Shepherd, and you have arrived at Judgement Day. So, let’s find out who was listening to the Emergency Drill, shall we? All hands on deck! Prepare to abandon ship! Because, this time, folks, it’s not a drill!”
The hallways were full of stumbling old fools, clutching jewellery and wallets, dignity long discarded. She joined the stream much as she had when leaving the department store, less than a week before. Setting foot out onto the open deck she beheld Captain Shepherd, barely recognisable. He was clean shaven and somehow taller, standing in full uniform, shouting orders, herding terrified millionaires, along with crew, into lifeboats, and lowering them over the side. When he saw her he beckoned her more softly, “Your turn, Susan.”
“You think I want to die surrounded by this lot?” she asked him, “I’m staying with you.”
“That would be nice. Drinks on the sundeck, then?”
As the life-rafts drifted away they sat in deck chairs, side by side, silently watching. Shepherd raised an arm and waved, “Bon Voyage, folks.”
There was nothing else to say.
The sun had risen now and Susan felt its first warm rays brush over her skin as the ocean made its way across the deck and prepared to take them both on another journey.
Richmond Road 