Old monkey man looked sad, He had grey hair, and grey sagging skin, Fur long gone, he hides within multicoloured clothing, Diamond pattern of reds yellows black and blues, Topped of with a tri pointed, belled hat, And soft, pointed shoes, with bells on their tip. Only a discordant jangle and chittering laugh are his voice, Too long away from trees, his once home, No longer needed, no longer wanted, Too far gone to notice the loss. Old monkey man looked sad with incomprehension, His age is done.
Bumble, trundle, humping along, Stopping to eat when hunger rises, Subconsciously seeking that special haven, A place to settle and prepare, Searching, halting, munching, Life revolving, never changing, Bumbling, trundling, humping along.
‘Till under an oak, haven is found, An end to bumbling, cessation of trundling, Final gorging, satiating greater hunger. Then out with the ropes, Self binding, twisting, contorting, Escapologist contrary, Binding tighter and tighter, enshrouding the whole, A haven within the haven without.
Time passes and changes are wrought, Oak liberates its young, and soon after, its clothes, Time passes, as time must. Its unchanging march towards eternity’s end, Delicate white water drifts from skies above, To settle, then thaw, as Chronos steps forth, ‘Till a fresh suit is delivered to clothe oak once more.
Ropes fray, bindings loosen, A brief struggle and freedom’s regained, Resting, recuperating, under strong oak, Never to trundle and bumble again, But to flitter and flutter, resplendently nimble, A new quest in mind, To seek out a mate, cycle recycled.
After therapy, with its repetitive, And transparent assurance of non guilt, The boy resumes his normal life. If a little more withdrawn than before, He knew he wasn’t to blame, He knew it was an accident, He knew it was the fickle finger, Poking out another life, Pushing it through to the other side.
And so he bumbled along. Until puberty when hormonal explosions Cause partial forgetfulness by turmoil, And everyone finally thought he was over it all. He had the usual lusts, and tantrums, and traumas, Had a rebellion in music, in clothes, Stamped his individuality on the world. In the brash manner of a teen, Away to university he went.
And during university, she returns, Fully fledged, inevitable, an ever presence, Mental smoke wisps, coalescing never dissipating, Scented with petuli and pork, leather and woodland soils, And so began a spiral, Of apathy, self neglect, self abuse. So he fails university. Can’t keep a job. Can’t form relationships. Can’t maintain a house, a flat, a room. And so by age thirty he’s living in a sewer, Looking like he’s sixty, Know to various transients, As Mulch Mouth.
The boy stared at the smouldering corpse, And wondered why it didn’t move. After all, actors died in every film, To appear again and again and again, And in every game, you just reload, And kill ‘em again and again and again,
No movement from the corpse. Except the drifting wisps of smoke, Rising like the fleeing soul, To spread and dissipate in the air above.
Revelation occurs. Of inevitable inevitability, Of how fragile life truly is, How easily the fickle finger’s whim, Pushes down, as a child on an ant.
A truth, dawning in the young boys mind, Actors, a thousand faces, a thousand lies Truth is singed flesh, And blood tears from fading blue eyes, All framed in a quiet wood. Soul smoke drifting away, Perfume of roasted biker, All singed hair, burnt flesh, With hints of leather, petrol and petuli, Wood sap and leaf juice, Scraped earth, mulch, and crushed fern.
The boy squats, takes a handful of decaying leaves, And bites, and chews and spits, Tasting life, knowing death. He sits, with his new mindset and watches, Until, seeming eons later, they find him, And her, And take him away, But she will never leave him.
Ok, so this doesn't quite read right, and is full of holes etc, but it's been running round my head going nowhere, so I slapped it down, churned it out. I guess you'll get the point. I just wish I could have worded it better :( But then again, I never claimed to be good at this stuff :) Feel free to rip it to shreds.
Monkey see, monkey do, And that’s the problem, And that’s the reason, For medias’ exploitation, Not violence in games, Or violence in films, It’s the adverts. . We know games are fantasies, We know films are lies, Just like a fish story, A mate would tell at a pub, Holding arms as wide as can be, We know he sits by a canal, Smokes a few cigarettes, And downs a few beers, Catches old condoms, If he catches anything at all, Fish? They’ve been dead for years. . It’s adverts, huge lies, Run quicker in these shoes, Get sex with this smell, Gain friends with this phone, A perfect family has this TV, This sofa, this that, that this, Tat upon tat upon tat. . Not quite so endless trees, chopped and processed, To send offers of loans, offers of credit cards, To let us buy more now, Never catch up and pay later. Consolidating your debt? How dumb we must be. . All that wasted energy, Theirs in creating, Ours in trying to ignore, Wasted fossil fuels, Wasted trees, Wasted time. . Where will it go? Here’s an option, So we re-mortgage, get loans, Dodge tax, little frauds, Dodgy deals, petty crime, Get into scuffles, a mugging or two, Climbing the criminal ladder, For faster cash, more and more, Faster cash, one step ahead of the law. To buy that TV, those shoes, That smell…
Sat watching, waiting, During a long drawn out twilight, Watching skies bruise and darken Feeble glows of first lit street lights Not long to wait now.
Time to prepare, to dress to kill, A relaxing shower, a thorough shave, Smear on the odourless deodorant, Crisp black slacks, slim fit, new bought, New t-shirt, new black top, New shoes to top off with.
A final glance in the mirror, Looking good. Time to go.
Such cunning calculation, Efficient use of lies and half truths, Occasional blatant outright lies, Carried off on sheer charisma. Playing off one against another, Tittle tattling and eavesdropping, Emotional blackmail and sheer audacity, Using every trick and twist, To achieve their goal…
Dead girl rose from slumber, Bleary sleep weary eyes, Nerves still night numb, Assisted by warbling alarm clock, Set at seven am by choice and preference.
Not actually dead, not yet, She still had choices to make, Or so she believed.
Cereal? Or toast? Juice? Or coffee? Or both? Dead girl made choices, Or presumed she did.
Faded black jeans? Or new? But always black, A choice of habit. Expressive clothing of weary bleakness, Hiding a cheeky bleak inner soul.
On with the day!
Optimistically pessimistic, Knowing empirically its all shit. But always hoping, that maybe, Just maybe…
A decision made, a ride into the city, A frivolous journey to buy unneeded perfume, A self-treat, a shopping adventure.
On with the leathers, faint scent of petuli, Out with the bike, smelling of power oil and petrol, 1100cc two wheeled race tuned demon, Matt black by choice and design.
Mount and straddle, Tenderly gripping tank, From knee to thigh, A kick, a twist, A throbbing growl, A spurt of road grit and away.
Highways? Or byways? Another choice, But no choice. No fun no skill on highways.
Tonne up on the straights, High sixties in the curves, A rip roaring, tire screaming, Adrenaline rush ride.
Slicing through tunnels of trees, Leaves twirling in her wake, Quiet country roads through woods.
Boy traipsing the tree line, Battling the ancient foe, boredom, Thwacking an older enemy, nettles. A flash of fear on his young face, As demon black bares down, Flinging himself back, as bike roars past, Involuntary hurling his nettle battering stave.
Bike flips, 60mph bronco, Dead girl flies, Transitory ebony butterfly, Drawn to a tree, To embrace, Like a hippie, Or radical conservationist, A face plate popping, Rib cracking, Pelvis shattering, Tree hug.
Motorcycle followed mistress, Striking higher, Snapping branches, Stripping bark, Tank rupturing, Fuel flying free, Ensuing petrol mist, Enveloping hot engine and exhaust, Explosively igniting, Dropping flaming wreckage, On not quite dead girl below.
A few final breaths, Of flame scorched air, And that’s that.
Scarred girl with deliberate suntan, Highlighting dainty threads of damaged tissue, Old wounds proudly boasting, “I did it for the pain.” “For the pain of life and living.” Thrusting forth fine lined self inflicted abstract artistry, At children and old ladies, To horrify and fascinate.
“Some memories appear dead, but are only asleep.” She mutters. “Make a pile of your troubles; I’ll put them to order,” She mumbles. “Sun and siblings shine on.” She murmurs.
Sizzle and curl and scent of breakfast bacon. Strings of life’s events, Waiting to be snipped.
They pieced it together, Over several days, And intense scrutiny of CCTV. After all, I deliberately chose to be on camera. . Tracked me down to this fleapit bed-sit Where I’ve waited, waited, waited. They find the cut throat razor, In a box, on a bookcase, Amongst tomes on serial killers etc. They take me away. . Why? Why that individual? They repeatedly inquire, They ask and ask and ask. . I tell them, That individual wore green trousers, Or jostled me, but didn’t say sorry, Or smelt funny, Or belched, Or looked me in the eye, Or because I could.
. I could, walk up behind them, Put cold razor steel against their neck, Pull back sharp, and walk on. I refrain from saying ‘move along’. . So I have my day in court, After passing a psych test, I plead guilty, not insanity, I collect my punishment. I hope for my reward, Only hope though.
This is the weakest point of my plan, The part where meticulous planning can fail, I chose my crime, I chose my location, But cannot choose where they send me. . I chose right, they send me to a certain place, Full of similar criminal minds, A flaw in the system really, But my reward, to be placed, In a place, that already contains, The monster, Which raped and murdered my child.
Thirty-eight and one, thirty-eight and one, Down the line it goes, Thirty-eight and one, Gimme two to make a three, Down the line, Thirty-eight and one, Forks up, in, out, down, Nine and two, Forth and back, down the line, Gimme fours, shunt ‘em in, Thirty-eight and one, Down the line it goes, Last batch! Onions! Onions? Yeah, that’shallot!
Sitting, waiting, watching. Fuggy headed due to working late, Physically drained, mentally dulled, Waiting for food to cook. Hoping to be alert enough, Not to receive burnt offerings. Wanting to fill the time, Writing or reading, But out of unread books, And stumped for ideas.