i watch the mouth of heaven open
in yawning, flecked with milk -
fierce with teeth
i watch alleys bend
like grey flags of silk, caught by draft or by wind;
crooked roads trodden with
smiling daffodils at either end;
i hear saints weeping above me
and saliva,
strung together,
it's pathetic, really -
a very personal dissonance born of a very private melody -
there is a shrill note in the clap of my heels,
and as i keel over, admission spills
'let this be over',
quietly,
i plea,
though no reply.
agitated by spittle on my knees
and bare feet,
i grunt and
i go inside
wherein a priest and a solider
are waiting to meet
me, their maker
fertile with conceit, yet
barren and dry
a mutiny of self
all deserted of pride.
D.B.B
Partial battle, fallen glory, The licked implications of this limbless edifice. Taught yet headless, The sense in dropping what capital gain From relics encumbered by a glory fallen. No arm to protract the blade, Found wanting, protected snarling, or Wispy headrush that retracts the swipe. This foul vision of crestfallen might, This hole within a whole that certain, might. Once gods, look they were ethereal, Now snapshots in the strange, flashy box And reduced to passing awe, The stoic impression like residue from A history learn't but not gained. Fleeting- here's 'another one', jubulant in Memory, but if their heads remained A snarl would surely on their faces be ingrained, And like the dowdy imprint, fleshly made, The torture of immortality duly fades. O.J.Wilks
And what an end to a soul's companion! This false consciousness was enough to kill Marking two graves with deliberation Setting the cradle of doomed news against the sill, In the callous trajectory of cold regret An odour that blemished all it knew Somehow post-obsequious; bereft of rancour Obliged to the faith it slew, Propped upon passing entice is an Evasion that unwinds the knotted rapport, Eases a distance in like clay mud Smothering the cracked dry floor, Of fertility this tactile essence Has quickly untaught itself And is now a figure on a page 23, Out of favour with itself, In awe of some Gideon else.
Rising gradually, flames licking his prodigious body, he yawns; continuing to soar. Upon rising to his optimum height, Sun's steely gaze overpowers the sky's army of cloud. As if waves, they curl, roll recede and retreat. Gazing into every available space, leaving no stone unturned, or rock unraveled. Piercing through the trees, with twigs entwined like the limbs of lovers, the light sketches silhouettes onto the ground behind the bark. Soldiers retract momentum; To nature's battleground they sing, Partnered by the birds below - composing. Sheltering behind swords to shield them. Bidding farewell and Sergeant succumbing. Underneath the glinting leaves, running parallel to a clearing, Whilst the symphony rises to a new tone, Water runs over pebbles, as if skin over bone. Damp soil brooding and bearing life; blades of grass claw themselves upward, protruding skyward. They cut violently into the air in desperation to fulfill their growth, spawned from their admiration for the trees above. Echoes pass the lips of the wind as it speaks sweepingly through the valley, causing the leaves on the trees to take partners and waltz; wearing shimmering raindrops as sequined dresses. Reflections in the water, Distorted vision; beauty dissipated. The skin's current ever calmer, Stillness obvious; peace invigorated Adam Thomas
It's funny how a small room full of people makes one feel lonelier than an empty auditorium. It's the noise. All the voices blend into one horrible noise that sounds like a poorly announcer sneezing down a tannoy. Victoria looked at me very fleetingly, slicing through the sonic shit with her eyes. She then escorted me to another smaller room down the hallway which was very bland and very airy. I nearly suffocated in all the air. We exchanged alot of petty conversation about how our half terms had been and about what we had done for Halloween and if we had seen any fireworks for Guy Fawkes night. I felt very much that I was wasting my time. The door opened and the air rushed out as a woman with little glasses and plump legs walked in. She was Miss Illingworth. She was going to discipline me but all I could think about was her strange figure and how it would look naked and roasting in an oven. This was probably because it was nearly Christmas and because I was hungry. She surprised me and I didn't like it. For a start, I should have liked to had known who exactly I was to be disciplined by. I could have worked out how to lubricate them into liking me if I knew who they were. Secondly, I was surprised by how she was. All I had to go on was her name, which was alot bigger and prouder than she was herself. She looked at me with alot of reverence. I thought she might call me sir or doctor and entertained the idea as long as I could without seeming distracted. She began using words far too long and intricate for her little head to understand and asking me all sorts of indecipherable questions. These questions caught me off guard on more than one occasion. I was very busy thinking about all the different ways I could cook her and all the titles she'd give me all the while. Whenever one of these questions came up, I would answer woo-ingly. "How do you feel you're enterprising here?" "I don't know really. I think I was quite naughty at the beginning, I think. I think that's changed now though. I don't think I'm being quite as naughty anymore." My answers got me thinking about girls and how half the things men say to girls they say because they're not thinking about it. They're thinking about how the bitch'd look splayed out. How she'd look waiting for the stake. Maybe I was going to have sex with this fat little woman. I quickly shrugged the notion off as simple curiosity and masculine over-analysis. I blinked lazily and returned to the conversation. Victoria was talking again and asking questions. I answered more coherently without thinking, though still stifled by the airy-ness of the room. They kept saying how intelligent they thought I was. Soon, the conversation was over and I thanked them both for the meeting and I told Miss Illingworth how it was a "great pleasure" to have met her. She said the same back and I believed her. She thought me a genius. I left the building out the front entrance and entered the schoolyard. There were boys littered about and playing around and looking at them was like looking at a wall of televisions playing the same tape at different times and tempos. My eyes darted between all the different cliques, watching the warped sketch show that appeared to be the only thing on. The same boy in the same clothes under different skin. I had always been quite intimidated by them but the weather was cold enough now to bring out the reds and the golds of their faces. They looked like summer postcard characters without the sun and the sea and with scarves. I was almost even warmed by the strength of character in that old schoolyard. *** I had to catch a bus home and when I boarded I found the bus driver to be a kind man. He kept telling jokes. I dropped my cigarette papers in front of him and he reached for them claiming that he thought them to be a twenty pound note and laughing and laughing. I joined in laughing, though, initially, I didn't know how to approach so gregarious and jolly a man. I struggled to produce my pass, managing instead to pull a handful of assorted identification and banking and library cards out of my wallet all at once. This provided ample stimulus for the man's sense of humour and wit and he offered me a game of solitaire. He laughed again and I did as well. He turned after that. He snatched my pass and almost denied me entry into the bus, not believing the little photograph to be me. I protested and he started to smile. I began to think he was mad. I told him that I had had a haircut and that the photo was dated, but he still smiled. I realised then that he was joking and he said that it was definitely me and let me on. I felt a fool for a little while afterwards but was certain he was mad. He was friendly though. I was usually paranoiac on the bus, but was comforted by the numerousness of the elderly in whose eyes I saw an envy for (amongst other things) my youthful retention of warmth. I saw in their eyes, which flashed at me over and over, a hunger for youth and on their backs, layers and layers of thick coats. The burdens of age I thought, and smiled to myself. I felt happy to be young and alive and fell to sleep very gently on the bus. D.B.B
"...and the dog started to lope alongside my car like a fat dolphin, but he was too heavy and old, and very soon gave up. And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears." - Vladimir Nabokov
The place was not ' trendy' or interesting. It was shabby and dank. My feet were cold the whole day and the floor was tiled and dirty like a junkies kitchen. The people were as intelligent as the place was pretty. They were generous, however, with their coffee which prompted suspicion in me because of the surroundings. Everybody looked relaxed and young which also made me suspicious, even though some were nearly twenty years my elder. It's not as though I wanted them broken down but they were very non-chalant and queer about everything. The man who consulted me about my English course was small but stately and was just as non-chalant as the rest. His non-chalance was charming though. He looked tired and slouched but spoke quickly and took alot of breaths, rarely looking me in the eyes though sometimes staring holes in my head or my feet or my hands. He seemed very bored by my questions until I used the words 'expatriate American poets' which seemed to prick at him and alert him to my smarts. He even made a joke about a poet named Henry James which I feigned laughing at because I didn't know who Henry James was. Words left his mouth like bullets from a machine-gun so I assumed he wasn't thinking about what he was saying and chose to ignore him, and whenever I stopped, he wasn't answering my questions at all. It wasn't even a conversation. At least he looked like an English teacher. I walked away from the man, clumsily taking a green post-graduate leaflet and hurriedly swapping it for a red under-graduate one. I could feel his eyes on my head as I walked off, but I was confident in my steps and knew I had made a good impression. It was mutually understood between us that we would never see one another again and wouldn't lose sleep over it, but it was too late to say anything. He probably knew it during the interview, but didn't say anything. I'd known it all day. My place next to him had been assumed by another student and I didn't have to hope he'd miss me or regret not answering my questions. I was probably the brightest person he'd spoken to all day, not that it was any mean feat. I wandered around for a little while and bought my second cup of coffee and watched the people in the cafe. Two Indians opposite me were embroiled in a debate about heritage and politics, overseen by a large, diplomatic Negro with a curly beard. Opposite them sat two kind faced white women who were discussing their evening plans and telling eachother how well they were. This made me smile because I knew that they were both probably very unwell. That if they had sense, they wouldn't be well. I couldn't blame them. The scar in the sky outside had swollen considerably since the morning I'd arrived and the clouds began to rain lightly, plashing on all the autumn outside and making little grey streams and estuaries of muddy water in the pavement. I watched water collect in the angles of crisp packets on the pavement outside and remembered being a cleaner and having my gloves dampened by pulpy water whenever I picked up a wet empty crisp packet. At the end of work after I'd removed my gloves, my hands would never be wet but would always be pruney and cold. The memory disgusted me a bit, especially with the influx of people into the cafe who carried a wet doggy musk with them and their coats. I stepped up to leave. As I reached the exit I was stopped awkwardly by a stout freckled woman with a big smile and little eyes. Her smile was framed by convex cheeks that were very red, though a different shade to the other. Her accent was frankly unrecognisable but as broad and thick as she was and I thanked God I wasn't two inches closer to her because I imagined her breath to smell. After asking kindly and receiving my consent she began interviewing me for her website, although halfway through it seemed to me more like an un-confidential survey. I answered her questions shortly and dryly. These were some of her questions: "What were your expectations of today?" she asked. "Erm, I don't know. I mean, I didn't really have any. I don't know what I expected. It exceeded my expectations though. My expectations have been exceeded." I replied. "What was your favourite aspect of today?" she asked. "..Probably, erm," I had to stop and think, "all the foliage at the back of the building. All those purple leaves on the wall. That was quite nice. Classical." I replied. "Uh, okay, how'd you find out about today?" she asked. "Online. On the internet." I replied. I thought I was being very funny and I thought she might get upset enough to leave me to my leaving. She didn't get upset but did leave just as quickly as she'd appeared. I began to consider the consequences of my flippancy and became frightened. I had ignored the students and people before, but now I didn't even notice them. I wondered whether the dean (or whatever they're called) would see my video and think me a smart bastard. He might find me somehow and reprimand me. Limit my prospects. Maybe the English teacher would see it. Perhaps he'd think me witty and give me a publishing deal through the university, though probably not. Maybe I would just look like a childish fool. I tried to stop thinking about it but couldn't. I decided I would justify my rudeness to the interviewing woman by looking at the ivy behind the building I had half-lied about. If it was my 'favourite' thing about this place as I had claimed, I would certainly feel less like a childish fool. In order to get to the back of the building, I had first to walk past all the other buildings which were just as charmless and academic and dull as they had been before the rain. The rain actually made them more attractive, if only because they presented me with the option of warmth and shelter and light. I soldiered on until I came to the rearmost face of the main building and my eyes, though squinted, met the red ivy on the wall and immediately consented that yes, indeed, it was my favourite part of the whole building. It snaked about the wall as though it were breathing and conscious. It looked like bullock blood had been tossed against the wall and had dried like a fresco, the leaves like the bloody hands of it's many makers. An organic fresco quite detached from the rest the buildings. I thanked God I hadn't lied because I would have felt guilty and an idiot if I had. The poor woman didn't need it. I left after this and tumbled over as I walked down the stairs. D.B.B
"I paid no attention whatever to books or study and regarded lectures as a joke which, in fact, they were if you discern anything funny in mawkish, obtuse mumblings on subjects any intelligent person could master single handed in a few months. The exams I found childish and in fact the whole university concept I found to be a sham. The only result my father got for his money was the certainty that his son had laid faultlessly the foundation of a system of heaving drinking and could always be relied upon to make a break of at least 25 with a bad cue. I sincerely believe that if university education were universally available and availed of, the country would collapse in one generation." Flann O'Brien.
As my feelings danced Come forward in waves, as friendship Mounts the summit of a glistening mountain And yet, increases far below Under lights - across dance floors. I walked back, dizzy in the dark, Fell into my bed - spinning all the while, For a matter of minutes I slept, then You left (with big plans and a little emotion). But I journeyed on with fresh faces, Only time will tell if, A feeling of emptiness will Crush me ever so slightly... I journey still Adam Thomas
 V. Genesis 15:13-14
And He said unto Abram: 'Know of a surety that thy seed shall be a stranger in a land that is not theirs, and shall serve them; and they shall afflict them four hundred years; and also that nation, whom they shall serve, will I judge; and afterward shall they come out with great substance.Pop Small sloe seeds lodged, undisturbed in their mummies; pudding tummies that swallow themselves forced outwards shot inwards, and outwards again - Can you smell that?
thick and still thickening -
day old black blood
ink and oil and clay
curdling
lying and disturbed in a petrey dish
overseen by a Scientist
a Thinker, a Jacob,
with pale shining hands
(gloved, of course) and how lean!
examining, cross examining, recording the scene
with pane blue pupils -
agate eyes without pain
and dull gold strands -
all sweat and hair
| So tell me then,
What difference is there between Savage and Man?
when
Curiousity adopts it's crueller face
and the only place to retire to
is a frightened mind, which, by design
is perpetually plagued by pale relics
and pale ghosts
| Never yours,
| mine.
D.B.B
 "I had gone to no such place but to the smoke of cafes and nights when the room whirled and you needed to look at the wall to make it stop, nights in bed, drunk, when you knew that that was all there was, and the strange excitement of waking and not knowing who it was with you, and the world all unreal in the dark and so exciting that you must resume again unknowing and not caring in the nightm sure that this was all and all and all and not caring, Suddenly to care very much and to sleep to wake with it sometimes morning and all that had been there gone and everything sharp and hard and clear and sometimes a dispute about the cost. Sometimes still pleasant and fond and warm and breakfast and lunch, Sometimes all niceness gone and glad to get out on the street but always another day starting and then another night. I tried to tell about the night and the difference between the night and the day and how the night was better unless the day was very clean and cold and I could not tell it; as I cannot tell it now."
 They escorted him to a quarry- Physically, lackadaisically- And knifed him in the yard, in the heart. Within his impervious glance a silent Figure of a man, lifting impish hands, Occasionally witnessed by the dying mob. A beaten-blood dripping from his cankered toes, Having walked endlessly for the past year, Year and a few. They delivered him to the air and Screened his cloth for extra gear. Last whimper of breath enclosed by The nimble fingers at his throat; Well, it's never the brave that easily go. What life left absorbed into a Seeping canescence, those haggard Palpitations of a gormless victim Dithering in the rot. A sack of brittle motion still. Heroic in the cowardly wind. They knifed him in the yard, In the heart, And bought snow to cover him in. O.J. Wilks
Upon a meticulous street where I hang The opulence of my tread, the hollow presence of Arms, faces, legs, Racing to the nearest Lodging of cultural death. The pace of a child’s wait dependent on the morning Is like the skin of consumption, tirelessly drawing Upon the garrulous drips of early sun, Under which my senses run. And pausing by the roadside in earnest absence My watch is checked, my head is lurched, I’m obsessed with each moment’s step, Direction pert, And smarmy in the safer light, Always tinkering by the weekday pool, Half naked under half my attire, Smelling the splash of weekend fire, Then clearing my eyes of it all- In two clicks of the railway tracks My mind has filtered that which it stored And drained the excess to the dregs, Leaving a sobriety as equally thin As it is overly fed, As equally wrought as It is bored, Squeezed of the essence of ‘when?’ Pumped with the stink of ‘what for?’ O.J. Wilks
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