Ursa (Unfinished)

Isn’t it so often the case, that we create meanings in our memories of the ordinary? Perhaps that day was not so different from any other, just one more in a routine of many that I had unwittingly become accustomed to.

A numbed world greeted me every morning, and as I read the daily newspaper on my long commute, I noticed nothing outside the window, nothing of the people surrounding me. Indeed, barely anything of myself. This repetition had engulfed me for longer than I can recall, for time is a privilege of change, and my prison was both invisible and infinite. When the everyday becomes the only day, I fear we are blind to the possibility of anything beyond our walled existence.

I could claim to have woken that morning and felt a shift in my life approaching, a whisper of subconscious alterations to my world, but I did not. I felt nothing. I could only feel nothing. To claim otherwise would be romanticising the events that unfolded that day, an activity which in this instance I will do my best to avoid, so as to portray in the utmost clarity the occurrence that befell me, and so that you may understand soundly the event of which I was a witness. I speak of the day that I found Ursa.

I was out jogging; an activity I occasionally partook of in those days. It was not for appearance, no thoughts of vanity every crossed my mind, but more for myself. The burning muscles and lungs a subtle reminder, perhaps, that I was still alive. I ran with no music, it had been years since I’d listened to anything more tuneful than television theme songs and advertising jingles. Instead I ran, head down, listening only to the sound of my own pounding feet and harsh breath. It was in this manner that I reached the forest that formed a part of my circuit, only realising where I was by the sudden shade cast over me, and the foliage covering the floor beneath. The cool air circulating beneath the trees cooled the sweat on my brow, and I was thankful to feel its soft, natural touch on my neck.

It was then that she first cried out to me, though at the time I did not know from where the noise came. A mournful plea twisted among the branches from somewhere off the path, a sound unlike anything I had ever heard. I stopped dead. 

Back, To Life

(For friends that I don't see as often as I should)

1

Today is the day I never woke up. I mean, sort of.

Normally it’s just half an hour and 2 cups of coffee after waking, and everything is fine. I’ll go about my day, do whatever bullshit needs to be done next, the typical drudgery. But not now. Floating around in such a heavy way as today, tripping over my lagging thoughts and pseudo cigarettes. Maybe I should take a nap. Maybe later.

I get in the car, and start to drive. Reckless nicotine speeding down these country roads has a way of clearing the cobwebs, and I must say, it helps. Cruising alone through nowhere gives a man some time to think, get things together and really nail it down. Winding sideways in the dark, you see that sunset, and you know what it is? That’s home. Wherever that sunset is taking you, that is where you need to go. Trust me.

That’s where I’m heading, in a manner of speaking. Not my traditional home, I’m heading to my mind’s home. Man, this feeling rushes me sometimes, in a situation just like this, streaming my way “home” in the semi-dark, to a place of vinyl, jazz, beer and marijuana. This feeling of freedom. That’s where I’m heading; somewhere free, to talk about the things we need to talk about, to say the things that need to be said, to play music, to go up in smoke. I’m heading to Jim Doherty’s place, and as the sun finally dips crimson beneath the Earth, I walk past a church, and ring a doorbell.

“Hello?” comes Jim’s voice through the slight static of intercom.

“Alright man, it’s Davis.”

With that I’m buzzed in, and, taking a step into the hallway, I breathe deep.

2

I’m laden with guitar, African drum and a backpack full of beer, making the narrow staircase up to Jim’s flat somewhat difficult to navigate. The guitar head bangs on banisters and I mutter shallow curses beneath my breath. It’ll need retuning now. Finally I open the first floor door and step through, another air freshened corridor before me, a bitter sweet aroma of synthetic roses, white wash, dark tables and a huge mirror on one wall. Silver door handles and a long echo. I don’t know when everything became so sterile. Jim’s waiting at the other end for me, laughing as yet again my guitar bangs, yet again the foul language falls forth. Slowly making my way towards him, I see the familiar darkened living room through the open door, the unmistakable shape of Brad Kessler jamming on the sofa, riffing on Jim’s old Stratocaster.

“Aye up lad!” comes the familiar greeting of Jim. “Get the fuck inside man, we’re just chilling.”

Stepping into the flat is like stepping into another world. Gone is the antiseptic synthesis of modern society, the cleansed air and polished marble, the weeping cities encased in varnish and chrome. We’re in our own place here. An unlit corridor leads to the lounge, stale smoke fills my nose as my eyes adjust, customising to the damp and subdued lighting inside. The beers are immediately stashed in the fridge, the guitar and drum placed in the pile of other instruments, harmonica, ukulele, accordion; I find a place on the floor between wires and bits of paper, quickly jotted notes, scrawled poems, beautiful 2 minute masterpieces, and sit down. A cigarette is swiftly lit. Only now does Brad look up, and with a cool nod of the head accompanied by a muttered,” ‘right?” my night begins.

3

We start as we always do, events since our last gathering recalled in vivid emotion, tales of family living, frustration and the ever present lack of money. Brad’s brothers are in town, he doesn’t get the car any more, all he does is work. Jim’s aunties are visiting soon, the flat needs to be cleaned, freshened; our friend George Icson owes him twenty pounds. Good luck ever seeing that again. Don’t get me wrong, George is a good guy, let’s just say that he can be somewhat, unreliable. He’s lost friends through money before. I’d be surprised if it didn’t happen again.

We talk under the dim glow of a muted television set, occasionally stopping to make some music, when one of us stumbles upon a good riff, beat or rhythm. That’s generally the way we seem to think, things can be put on hold when an idea comes along. After all, conversations can often be resumed, ideas are fleeting.

I hear the church bells ring and look through the singular window towards them, through the soft haze of smoke I notice that night has fallen. Our beer supply has started to run low, only one left each, and the money in our pockets is whispering of bigger things. We didn’t come here with a plan in mind; we came here just to be. Now that we’ve reached this stage, we all know what is about to happen. We will not remember this in the morning.

Carlo's Monster

“Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!” – Allen Ginsberg

I am moved

By the words of a poetic con-man’s prophecy

Written by the city, midnight, a junkie

I have searched for lies

For false truths and acts of defiance

I have walked the streets in desperation

To deny you

Still, your Monster remains

Waving contracts and horned smiles

His breath, temptation

Promises as fragile as skin

As a bank note fallen in the rain

We clamour to bend and kiss

Fighting like angels in heat

And pray for the substance to empty ourselves

Carlo, saviour of men

Speak to us once more

Through your heavenly Benzedrine haze

Free us from the horns of Moloch

The Ladybird

The ladybird visits me
Only at night
Year round and humble
her spots symmetrical, flight haphazard
Drawn to my single lamp
Like a six legged Icarus
Her tap cuts
Through clocks and electric static
Her shadow cast two feet tall
A lost behemoth strides my single room
In endless search for last year’s sunlight.

Poached Eggs and Dancing

He boarded the train, and chose his seat carefully, wary to hide his gaze from strangers.

Placing two bags on the luggage rack, he was satisfied with his location, and settled down in the seat, cautious not to crease his coat.

Staring out the window, the city changed to suburb, the suburb to fields.

He wished he could smoke.

The past week had stolen something from him; all was not well in the world.

Death clung to his atmosphere, the other passengers nothing but ghosts.

He wasn’t sad. At least, not now.

Merely contemplative, on the recent change in his life. The thought that he would never have a similar Christmas, that he would not wind the oaken stairs to oxygenised passageways and the assault of early afternoon game shows on full volume.

He wished he hadn’t complained so much.

He stood in car parks and smoked, sneered, judged, scorned, spat.

Stock still in an unseen corner, observing from the shadows. He saw everywhere, people scrambling for a safety sewn shut.

The sun outside the window slowly faded, and he realised that he was staring at his own reflection.

He gazed serenely into his own tired eyes, looking for something.

For that shimmering, stirring light that exposed his true thoughts, once.

He saw jet black encircled by pale grey, haloed by bloodshot white, and knew that this wasn’t him.

He closed his eyes and remembered the night before.

The grief, the sadness, the intolerable guilt.

The secret of a stranger that they will share forever

He remembered the clutching hands of love, leading him home again.

He opened his eyes, picked up two bags, and departed the train in single file

Like school children and prisoners

He understood, now, that for the first time in his life

He was about to say goodbye.

Bae

The name I'd never heard
Before light was lost in sound
Was wrong but never learned
Our feet had left the ground

And I’m trying to understand

How I will sleep at night

When you are on my mind

And the lights will shine so bright

When you and I collide

The ocean stains the air

With temporary scars

And I will meet you there

Under our blackened stars

Brittle Bones

I’m so long in doubt

I'll fold when the lights go out

If pleasure is just tension relieved
The right words could make me weak at the knees

And I find

In the corners of my mind

A life time

Of men slowly going blind

And I’ll know

When my body’s grey and old

That I’ll grow

Into these brittle bones

I’ll burn through my youth

To turn black and blue

With bare hands I'll search through my mind's only church
With time and with patience, things could have been worse