The Wallet.

The Wallet.

I had a wallet once or twice, and that was all rather nice
All shiny, black and leather too
A gift from a lady I once knew. A lady of distinction and impeccable taste
But maybe she should have known better than to give me something made of leather

It’s soft to the touch, although I never put much in it
I still like to caress, touch and feel it
What’s the deal with that, wonder have I got some kind of fetish ?
Possibly so, I just don’t know

It don’t make me strange or peculiar, although some may choose to disagree
But then they don’t really know me, so I won’t pay much attention to them, you see
Maybe I should just concentrate full-time on leather
Just wrap myself in it, till I know no better

I’m fairly sure I’ll derive a great deal of pleasure from that
Is that so very wrong ? As long as I don’t burst into song
It’s just a harmless inanimate pleasure
It’s only leather after all

It’s just that I start getting strange withdrawal symptoms
If I can’t get near leather. I seem to find myself getting into a bit of a tether
I just feel drawn to it, in a strange sort of way
That’s my lot, that’s the way. There’s really nothing more I can say.

 

                                                                                                                                                                   OCT-06-2015//  G.

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Woman 2.

There once was this woman, right, and man she was well outta sight
With a fine full bosom, and eyes so blue
I mean what in the name of God is a fella to do
I said,’would you mind’, she replied, ‘I’d rather not’,and declined
‘Come on’, I said, ‘Don’t be mean, let’s get dirty and obscene’
I protested, ‘ just give us a go ‘. But she was firm and said no
So being a gent of sorts, I said, ‘I’ll be off then’, in retort
So what could I do. What would any man do
So I said ‘okay then, to hell with you’.

My Guilt.

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Photo Credit : Ian Espinosa.

It was with these hands I did it. That damp night in the forest. She had to go. My mind was made up. Problems and issues as long as your arm. I was saving her from a life of toil and misery, at least that’s what I told myself, and of course, setting myself free from an unbearable situation.

I didn’t think too far ahead. I just grabbed her from that place, and made a dash for it. Made sense all round. I was sure I could be forgiven, maybe not now. But given time most would see, it was the right course of action. I watched my wife sleeping. The effects of the medication she had being given, enough to knock out a horse. Along with the tranquilizers, to help her deal with the situation. The room was quiet, aside from the bleeping of the bedside monitor. The attached tubes, monitors and syringes, like some form of grotesque accessories, only ever available in hospital trauma wards.
Her face red, and blotchy. She perspired heavily, as she twisted and turned in the bed. Her nightdress damp. As was her hair, as were the sheets. He constant moans an indication of her troubled rest. We were alone now, in the semi darkness, as I reflected on what had brought us to this situation. I watched her in the bed, unsure if I still loved her. If I ever really did. Were we just two lonely people holding onto each other out of fear.
To be fair, the Doctors had advised us against children. The risk of damage too high. With her previous career, if you could call it that. Her love of the high life. The travel, and the illicit substances, and rubbish diet, that went alongside a life in the music industry. The cigarettes, and the numerous love partners she had entertained, and liked to boast about from time to time, especially when we argued. I had begged her to have an abortion, but she refused. I was unsure if her refusal was just another measure to inflict pain and torture on our increasingly loveless sham of a marriage. The more I thought of our past together, the more angry I became. I watched her breathing, and asked myself would it not be better if she did not breath any more. I watched her for a long time, before I made my move. Reaching into the glass covered incubator, I removed my sleeping newly born daughter from it, after removing the tubes, and syringes attached to her precious body.           Placing her in the dark rucksack I ever so gently carried her from my wife’s hospital room, and out of her life. Stopping briefly at the door, to view her sleeping body, very probably for the last time.
Luckily the corridors were near enough empty at this late hour. So I made my way swiftly towards the hospital exit, only to be waylaid by the night matron. I never liked the woman, although I understood she was just doing her best. I was forced to listen to her ramblings and nonsense, and did so, to be polite. So not to raise her suspicions. Thankfully on this evening she didn’t feel the need to drone on and on, about whatever nonsense was in her head.

At last, free. I placed the rucksack on the passenger seat, and headed out into the night, and onto the highway.      A plan that had being forming in my mind over the past few days, soon began to come to fruition. The sky was clear, as were the roads. I reckoned on it taking two hours approximately to get to the forest. I listened to my daughter laboured breathing as we drove through the night. My mind focused. I knew what I had to do. Eventually we arrived at the forest clearing and drove as far as possible into the darkness of the trees. I always loved the silence of the forest, even more so at night. Affording the time and space to think, focus and clear one’s mind. I gently lifted the black rucksack, in which my daughter sleep and walked deeper into the forest. The large pillow under my right arm.

When I felt safe and hidden, I opened the rucksack and lifted her out. The movement woke up, and she began to cry. Just what I didn’t want, nor need. I wanted this over quickly and silently. So I did what I could to soothe and comfort her, and held her closely. Gently I laid on her blanket while I began to dig at the earth with my bare hands. I knew it would not take long.
In the quietness and silence of the forest I placed the pillow over her smiling and gurgling face, with her small hand reaching for, and grasping tightly my little finger, with all her strength. I told her I loved her, and placed the pillow over her face, until she released her grip on my finger. In the silence, I knew it was done. I laid her in the shallow grave I had dug with my own sordid hands. Sank to my knees, raised my hands up to God and asked for his forgiveness and understanding, and also cursed him for delivering to us a child destined to have nothing but a very difficult, and torturous life. Thanks to the myriad mental and physical disabilities she was born with.

‘Why Jesus, Why have you done this ?’ In the silence of the forest, my cries of despair went unanswered.

Written in response to a photo prompt seen here : http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

The Poem.

The Poem.via Daily Prompt: Recite

The teacher made his rounds of the classroom as the boys studied and attended to the exercise he had given them. His anger and temper to the fore, as per usual. His sometimes formally normal thinking transformed into anger, paranoia, and victim thinking.  Looking for any, or just one of the boys to step out of line. Silently willing them to break his self imposed rules. Feeling quiet unwell, as a result of the nightly bottle of red wine, which many times had turned into two bottles. Looking forward to the mid morning break, for some badly needed hydration, and rest.

The alcohol helped him ignore, or in his mind deal with his failing marriage,and impending divorce. Life didn’t seem soo bad. Life didn’t seem that serious through the bottom of a wine glass. His throbbing head. Mouth as dry as could be. A sick, queasy feeling in his stomach. He was well used to such physical effects of his increasing alcohol consumption. Never welcomed, but the expected side effect of his over indulgence.

If he was not the coward that he was, he would have challenged a man of his own size and age to a physical altercation. But he was brooding for a row, and the children in his care would suffice. At the very least they would offer little opposition. Just the way he liked it. He walked around the classroom, with his hands behind his back. Peering over the shoulders of the boys as they attend to the exercise he had given them. Peering, but really looking and praying to find some boy stepping out of line. Looking for an adversary, a victim. Someone to unleash his anger on. Someone to castigate, embarrass and shame. Why not. If it would made him feel better as a man. Some small victory in life. In a life where he didn’t feel such a failure.
Much to his satisfaction, it did not take long, He knew from experience there was always one. There would always be one, among the class. The dreamer. The softly spoken. That gentle, innocent child.
He stopped behind the desk of the young blond boy. Whom he had immediately taken a strong dislike to, when he initially saw him in the class at the beginning of term. The boy he had singled out for special , non too pleasant treatment. The soft, innocent and attractive features, and a permanent slight anxiety and fear, evident his features. The perfect victim.
‘What’, he thundered, ‘is this ? ‘, as he held aloft the few lines of poetry the boy had written. His face red with anger, and delight.
‘What nonsense is this you have written, eh boy ?’
The young boy squirmed in his seat. Not wanting to be the centre of attention, as the whole class turned their attention to him.
The boy shock with fear. His face reddened. His breathing quickened. His legs shock. That sickly feeling arose in his stomach, and how he wished he was anywhere but here. In this place, at this time.

‘What are you ? Who are you ?’, the teacher said mockingly. ‘The next Keats or Shelly ?’
‘You think you can write poetry’, he roared. ‘Here ‘ he said, as he hurriedly scribbled some words on a blank sheet of paper. He handed the paper to the boy, and instructed him to stand at the top of the class and recite what was written on the paper.
The young blond haired boy, read the words at his desk, silently, and at the aggressive insistence of the teacher stood at the the front of the class, and began to read from the scribbled paper.

‘I am an idiot and a fool. Most of the times I actually drool
I have the talent of a newt
I am ugly and thick, to boot
I deserve to die, I tell no lie
I am sorry, for actually being alive
Will you forgive me, for being what I am
I am not, and can never be a proper man.

As he read out the words before him, standing in front of the class. The others boys listened, and then the laughter began. The boys laughed. The teacher laughed, as he insisted that the poem be recited over, and over. Having had enough, the young boy ran from the class. Tears streaming down his checks. But as he ran, the image, and words of his Grandfather, from beyond the grave, stood strong in his mind.
‘Do not allow people to make a fool of you. Be strong. Be kind, but take your revenge if necessary’. He ran past the school car park, and slowed down, as his tears subsided. The silent words and images of his Grandfather encouraging his strength and resolve. With the area near enough deserted, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the penknife his Grandfather had given him before he had passed away. The wooden carved handle, and the sharpened blade. Which he regularly sharpened , and kept pristine and clean. Looking about him, he slipped under the teachers white jeep. Easily recognizable. He began to cut the plastic, mastic covered tubes, and hose’s underneath the engine. Not knowing really what he was cutting. But the act of cutting and hopefully causing some damage to the car and teacher, more than satisfying. He began to snigger softly, underneath the engine. Then he began to laugh aloud. Picturing his Grandpa encouraging and praising his bravery and actions. Feeling and hearing his words and spirit.

Satisfied that he had done enough, He slid out from underneath the jeep, and moved to the edge of the car park. He watched from beneath the tree’s in the late afternoon sunshine as the arrogant teacher sat into the white jeep, started the engine and slowly drove away. He noted the trail of dripping liquid following the jeep, as it exited the school and onto the highway, and he smiled.

Woman.

This ain’t love, this shouldn’t be
How dare you, how could you, raise your hands up to me
I ain’t got no money, I’m stuck here with you
What the hell is a man meant to do

You told me, you loved me, but that’s just a lie
You have wasted my time here
Don’t try and deny
Your violent, your angry, Your cruel and unkind
Your mental and crazy, Your out of your mind

I hate you, I hate you, I wish you were dead
These are the thoughts I keep in my head
These are the thoughts that I never said
But I think to myself, you’d be better off dead

I’m glad we are finished, you were never no good
I’ll never see you again, please God, touch wood
I’m moving on now, getting someone new
I wish I’d never met you, it was a big, big mistake
You were no good for nothing, but being on the take
Getting all you could, and never giving back

Holding onto each other, like two souls lost at sea
Out of fear, loneliness and insecurity
Hardly the basis for a long term plan
Best to jump ship, be that man
Our lonely , isolated lives brought us together
But we were doomed to fail
How could it have worked, we so different
We fought tooth and nail
Our different ways of looking at life
Not suprising, there was so much strife

When we first met, I thought it was cool
Like two youngsters making new friends at school
Had I know back then, how mad you could be
I would not have got involved
But would have set myself free

Your so self centred, it’s just untrue
Seldom really asking, ‘Hey Mike, how are you ?’
Well sometimes you do, but you don’t really care
If I am actually there
You like to talk, but you don’t like to listen
You like to make love, but you ain’t very giving
You just lay back, and think of yourself
How about, just one time
Giving thought, to someone else’s pleasure

My God I was crazy getting mixed up with you
But sometimes when you’re so lonely
That’s just what you do
Now that we are over, I am never going back
I’m taking my freedom, ain’t cutting you no slack

Never again will this happen, I swear
This kind of stuff, is too much to bear
Arguments, tears, violence and more
This is how we learned to tally, and keep score
I don’t want this
This ain’t for me
I want peace, joy and tranquility
If I can’t find it here, I’m moving on
I will leave you alone, and I will be gone

You cant cope with life. You’re no good in bed
I ain’t putting up with this,it is not helping my head
You have too many troubles, as long as your arm
All this is doing, is causing me harm
I want us finished, quick as can be
Then I’ll be happy, then I’ll be free

Stop it, Stop it, leave me alone
Your mad carry on, is driving me from home
I’m losing weight now, I’m worried and thin
I look to all appearances, like I’m living from the bin
Stop getting so mad. Stop getting so blue
You can keep all your violence, that’s what you can do
There is no need for violence, to scream and to shout
To rant and to rave, and throw things about
You’ll drive a man out

What part did I play in this mad game
As there’s always more than one to blame
My heart told me from the start, you were wrong
But I choose not to listen to that warning song
I see that you are lonely, unhappy and sad
So am I babe, and its real bad
This relationship is over. It’s finished, it’s done
It’s no ones victory. I have not won

Stop holding on now, let me be free
Stop calling, stop phoning, stop contacting me
Go your own way now, cut your own path
Move on with your life, love, and never look back
Your not as nice, as what I thought
That is why I have decided to walk
Save my skin, save my mind
Save my black and blue behind

Now that we are finished,it’s over, it’s done
I ain’t coming back. You ain’t no fun
Move on with your life, leave me alone
Let me find happiness, all on my own
I’m going , I’m leaving. I ain’t coming back
I’m taking my freedom, I’ll cut you no slack
I miss you, I love you, but we ain’t to be
Maybe you can see, what’s so obvious to me

So there you are sweetheart. I’m wishing you well
But don’t come round here, ringing my bell
We’re over, we’re finished, we’re done and we are through
Move on with your life, and I will do to.

The Postman.

The Postman.via Daily Prompt: Delivery

She waited by the inner door, of the ramshackle house. Behind the outer sun shade screen door. She watched and waited. Would he bring it today ? Willing him to come today.  In the early morning sunshine he wandered up the garden path. Dressed in the colours of the motorcycle gang, that near enough ruled the dark underbelly of the small town, and its seedy inhabitants. With his leather jacket, and denim waistcoat, festooned with the colours and flags of the gang. He smiled, well rather smirked. Because he knew she was beholding to them. A prisoner of that dark brown powder he had come to deliver.
His clear blue eyes, held a strength and confidence that was undeniable, even though he was only the delivery boy. The result of the power, he and the other gang members had over her.

In the early morning heat, and stickiness of the South Carolina weather, her white vest stuck to her perspiring body. Her jeans blue tight fitting jeans, dirty and oil stained. Her black hair tied back, showing her tanned, and once pretty face. Her once shining eyes, now tired, and dead. She tried smiling, but their was nothing there. Little to smile about. She knew what the cost of the package would be. But she needed it, damn it. Her body crying out for the sustenance that that dark brown powder could, and she knew would bring. If only for a few hours. She needed something to take away the hallucinations, the non stop shaking of her body. The constant perspiring.  The intense nausea. The abdominal cramps, that had her doubled over in pain. Her inability to sit still. The vomitting and the depression, and of course that non stop mental craving for more. Or even just a little of the powder to relieve the symptoms.
He threw the package on the wooden porch. Knowing full well she would have followed the package to the gutter. He enjoyed watching her scramble on all fours, like a meangy dog, as she grabbed at the package like a wild starving animal, that had not eaten for days. He leaned back on the rickety fence that surrounded the wooden porch and watched her. She sat back against the front door and she hurriedly tied a tourniquet around her upper arm, just above the crock of her elbow. Holding it with one hand, and biting the other end of the dirty old cloth with her teeth, to tighten it sufficiently. She then began to slap the veins in the crock of her elbow hard, praying that one would pop up. As one solidary vein popped up, she reached into her pocket and grasped the old tobacco tin, that contained all that she needed. The old syringe, with its slightly rusted needle. The lightweight spoon, and small bottle of water, to dissolve the powder, and the box of matches. She quickly had the powder dissolved and ready to inject, which she did with practiced ease.
As the powder entered her vein, the effects almost immediate. The intense rush of euphoria and pleasure almost indescribable. Her body began to relax, as it fed off the elixir she had just injected. Her physical symptoms disappearing with much ease. Her mind and spirit, once again finding that comfortable, beautiful sense of peace. That feeling that all was right with the world. She watched her young daughter playing alone on the swing. Choosing to ignore her sad and depressed features, she called her to her side. She attempted to hold the child closely, but the youngster retreated from her Mother’s arms.

‘Now you know what Mommy wants you to do. You have to go with this nice man here’, as she gestured towards the man who had delivered the package.
‘But I don’t want to. He is not a nice man. He is a bad man, and so are his friends. They make me do things that are naughty, that hurt, and that I don’t like’, and she began to cry.
‘It’s alright sweetheart, It’ll be alright. Will you do it for Mommy ? ‘

With that the man, took the child roughly by the arm, and headed out the wooden gate. In the bright sunshine, the young girl screamed and wept.
She looked down at her arm, where the old syringe was still sticking out of her vein. Not that it mattered. Her body slowly relaxing into a beautiful, and peaceful state. Never had she felt so relieved and so peaceful, and at rest. With that she gently closed her eyes.

The Beach.

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Photo Credit : https://unsplash.com/@venegas?photo=OhIfU2AczOg

She had threatened long enough, although no one had believed her. Just a call for attention. Nothing more, nothing less. they had decided. An old womans empty, and at times, humorous threats.
But obviously beneath the humour, there was hurt, and distress. No one had bothered to investigate. Everyone busy with their own lives. There careers, children, and business. Had someone actually taken the damn time to sit down with her, and sincerely ask her, what life was like for her. Had they show  more consideration and kindness, and maybe spent more time with an old lonely woman, life would have turned out differently. Perhaps many would have spent more time with her, aside from the one solidary visit a week, for the Sunday lunch. Nobody considering how the rest of the week was for her.
It was of course, too late now. The chance had disappeared. She lived for the weekends, and the once weekly visit from her children, and newly born grandchildren. Laughter and energy and happy voices once filled her household, just as it had been, when her own children were grown up. But there were always strains between her and her grown up, and now adult children. Did they really like each other , as people. Would they actually want to spend time in each other’s company, were they not related.

Some had taken sides, when the separation from her husband was first enacted, and then the divorce. Allegations and counter allegations flew between the two parties, and none of it pretty. Lies, distrust, and anger followed. Made up stories of abuse, and cruelty that may, or may not have had a grain of truth in them. Loyalty and kindness to her children, soon forgotten and dismissed by them, as they took the side of her husband.

The final straw for her, was the cessation of contact with her children, who were convinced by her husband, that she was the villain in all of this. That and the denial of access to her grandchildren, that she had helped care for, soon after they were born. No viable reasons given. All the love, kindness, and generosity she had shown them, and their Mother, her daughter, throughout the years. Amounted to nothing, it seemed. Kindness granted, soon forgotten.

It was that dull overcast November afternoon, that she headed to the isolated beach alone. With the tablets to hand, and a last small bottle of whiskey to encourage her bravery, she laid her reading glasses in the sand, and headed towards the ocean, and into the cold, uninviting waves. The mixture of the tablets and whiskey having the desired effect. As she stumbled and swayed, as she walked toward the sea. Her vision blurred slightly, and  feeling quiet light-headed. As a non swimmer she struggled and panicked at first, as the powerful waves, did with her as they wished. The whiskey and tablets helped to quell her rising fears, somewhat. The waves, and weight of her own clothing soon pulled her out and down, to the ocean bed, where she waited for God to take her.
In the cold, dark church, the priest stood at the lectern, gazing upon the congregation of mourners. Having conducted most of the formal ceremony, he could no longer hold himself back. Behind him the magnificent altar, towering upward. To him, they were nothing but hypocrites. He was well aware of the family history, having had been closely and connected to them for years. From births to marriages, to baptisms and confessions. He had heard and seen it all. They were here in this place of worship now to mourn her, with their crocodile tears, and false sadness.

The priest gripped both ends of the lectern tightly. His face thunder red, and perspiring. ‘What does it mean, to mourn someone when they have died. It means very little when you showed them little kindness or understanding when they were alive”. He spoke slowly and loudly. The anger and frustration plainly obvious in his tone. Her children shifted uncomfortably in their seats, as did her former husband. One or two loosening their shirts collars. The females fanning themselves with whatever was to hand. One or two members of her family gazed quietly at the floor.
‘I have very little time for hypocrites like you people, I want you to leave this church now. Get out of my sight. I am sick of the lot of you. Go, and may God have mercy on your black souls. Get out, go’, his voice rising to a crescendo. His booming voice reverberating throughout the silent church. The congregation left the church as directed, for the most part, with their heads held low. In the sacristy as the priest changed from the formal clothing of the funeral mass, he gazed out onto the cold uninviting waves of the ocean, under the dull grey November sky.

Written in response to a writing prompt seen here : http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/