Listen
Marc Roberts
Published by Opening Chapter at Smashwords
Copyright Marc Roberts 2010
www.openingchapter.com
www.myspace.com/zeukx
ISBN 9781904958154
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Cover photo by Noel Dacey
illustrations by Ellie Young
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To Freyja
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Contents
Listen
Stuff
Herby 2
Herby 3
Two More Poems
The Whispering Wheel
Haiku
Other
Lyrics
Listen
STUFF
No Room
four wan
walls,
a window,
and a door, stare,
in silence
upon
one naked bed,
one barren shelf, and
one self.
Pie in the sky
Barry Pye, a healthy, handsome, energetic young man, worked in the meat factory. That’s what everybody called it, the meat factory. The people of Bumpton regarded it as a fine establishment, producing the tastiest pasties, pies, rissoles, sausages, scratching and speciality burgers anyone could ever hope to savour. In fact, the Bumpton pie had lately become renowned far beyond the small town itself. This led to murmurs among the crew, as the workers called themselves, that expansion and maybe pay rises were imminent.
Barry, a packer, secretly looked forward to, and hoped for, a promotion. He had many plans and dreams. Particularly he looked forward to the day when he would see the ghost of the playful moniker ‘Barry Bike’ exorcised, and drive to work and back home in a neat car. Black or red it would be, with a nice interior and a wicked stereo. But as it was, and as it had been for some time, he’d arrive at and leave the factory that day on the Eagle. A sturdy two wheeled wonder his father had fondly handed down saying ‘she served me well for years son, and there’s life in the old horse yet.’
It was a sunny Friday. Barry had been on days, and clocking off at 3.30, had decided to go to The Crown with some of the crew for a pint. One pint became two and three. 3.30 became 5. Then Barry thought it was time to go home for tea. Fish and chips and peas it would be. Finishing his lager and saying ‘see you later’ to his mates, Barry left the pub, unlocked the Eagle, and pedalled onto the road home in a comfortable haze.
But Barry didn’t see his friends later, or make it home for tea.
He’d got to the crossroad at Western Way and rightly stopped at a red light. He considered whether he’d get across the road quicker if he used the pedestrian crossing as he sometimes did. Then as if his mind had given him space to think, he thought about Julie, and whether he would see her again, and if he did, would she speak to him even.
Julie was Barry’s true love. They’d first met one Saturday night in a loud and crowded Stardust club. She was a nurse and had been out with a friend, Sandra. Sandra had copped on with Jon, Barry’s mate, and Barry was left feeling quite awkward with Julie at a table loaded with empty and half empty glasses. The pair of them watched Jon and Sandra kiss and grope each other on the dance floor, and chatted about pies and hospitals.
The following week the same happened. Barry and Julie found they had much in common, and became fond of each other.
Barry mused on those early meetings with an almost aching melancholy as he stared at the red light above and before him.
The odds were astronomical. Most people were baffled. Many were alarmed. But nearly all were sorry for poor Barry. Such a nice young man. Such a promising future. Such a cruel fate.
The police had called to 32 Pleasant view at 6.30. Mrs Pye, suspicious at first, let them into the narrow hallway, and closed the door on a mellow evening. She listened with a creeping dread as a policeman reported in concerned yet firm tones that there had been an accident. He assured Mrs, and having heard the commotion in the hallway, a cramped and cardiganed Mr Pye, that everything was all right. Everything that could be, was being done, and doctors expected Barry to regain consciousness soon.
However, when it came to explaining what had happened, even the officer, familiar with such delicate situations, had difficulty in keeping a professional and rational tone to his voice.
No witness was able to give a clue as to what had occurred. The driver of the Escort beside Barry said he thought the cyclist looked a little unsteady perhaps. That one second he was there, then he was not. It was a passenger in the car behind the Escort who saw him go down, and called the emergency services. By examining the wound, they could only come to the conclusion that something had fallen from the sky, and hit Barry on the head, out of the blue. There were no buildings that near to the road for anyone to have thrown something from, and why on earth would anyone have done that? Yet no appropriate object could be found, despite the enthusiastic searching by officials, motorists and some interested passers by.
The logical and accepted explanation was that a lump of ice had done it. ‘Blue ice’ probably from an aeroplane. It must have shattered upon impact, then melted and dried up before anyone realised what had happened.
Luckily, the expensive visits to the hospital were fairly short lived. So too was any patience and understanding on the part of Barry’s friends and family.
The golden leaves in the park near Barry’s home were becoming a crispy carpet for kicking kids. They would reluctantly run home through them to soak up some soap operas, game shows or situation comedy classics, and munch on a Bumpton burger or pie perhaps. Barry would sit on a bench in the park and stare at the long shadow of his favourite tree until a creeping park keeper told him the park was closing and he had have to leave.
Some people said Barry no longer followed the plot, or got the joke. That he had lost it. Not that the doctors could find anything wrong with him. Of course, the knock had done it, but he had, well, changed. Those that didn’t laugh at him, or ignore him, treated him like a helpless child. Barry’s response to any of these approaches was the same, a hazy indifference.
Maybe it was the waxing winter, or the increasingly frequent downpours which kept Barry away from his slatted graffitied throne in the park. Perhaps any cobwebs which had clung to Barry’s mind after the accident were blown away along with the leaves which were heaped up in sad piles against the rusted railings., like leftovers of a plentiful feast, or the litter of a carnival show. Whatever, with the change in the weather came an even greater change in Barry’s manner.
He redecorated, or rather undecorated his room. This caused some alarm for his mother who thought such sudden and drastic action unhealthy. His father took an opposing view of it. He tried to comfort Mrs Pye, and told her to leave him to it. He was too old now to have pictures of footballing heroes, sports cars and sexy film stars clinging to every inch of wall and ceiling.
But soon Barry’s morose behaviour and dark aura began to touch both the Pyes. Sensing it’s contagious potential, Barry was left to his own devices, and if any, only the most essential attention was paid to him.
Barry had taken to wearing black, and only black every day. His hair had grown over his ears and his fingernails were noticeably longer than they ever had been. What had been frequent lapses into reverie was now a permanent state of being.
Mr and Mrs Pye really didn’t know what to do, so coming to a decision that he’d snap out of it in time, they got on with things as they had done, and life went on.
You would hardly have noticed that Barry was there, and if you had seen him staring at himself in the hallway mirror, mouthing words to his wan reflection with the intensity of a certain accusation, you would have made believe to yourself that he wasn’t really there.
One afternoon Mrs Pye heard running water, the squeak of taps turned tight and a solitary splash come from the bathroom. She washed her hands, wiped them on her pinny and took up the rare opportunity to have a look inside Barry’s room. It was a taboo which had not been broken. Partly due to the advice of doctors, partly due to the strange silence. With polish and duster in hand, she walked into the room, switched on the light and was quite amazed. There in the corner stood a wooden frame. Attached to that frame was a canvas. Upon that canvas was an image, and that image was simply hideous.
When Mrs Pye regained her composure, and straightened her mind and pinny, the surprise before her became plainly what it was. A painting. That almost explained it. At least it made some sense. She wasn’t exactly sure why, but suddenly the sullen moods, the solitude, the silence was somehow justified. Barry had taken up art. Yes it was strange. It was unbelievable. It was almost impressive. She’d seen this kind of thing on a TV program. Not all artists painted pretty flowers and cottages.
She heard a glug, glug and schlurrp sound across the landing, came to her ordinary senses, and discreetly left the room.
Later that evening she told Mr Pye about her discovery. From behind the black and white wall of the Bumpton Herald, he told her at least Barry was doing something with himself. Then muttered something about there being an E. Coli crisis at the meat factory. He was by now neither curious or concerned about Barry. Barry’s own curiosity and concern was another matter. It was with his paintings.
He created six paintings, and only the most discriminating eye could have noted any variation between them. That is if each had not been destroyed. Each completed canvas, each pastel perfection splattered with a thick black oily gunk. Slashed, sliced, slaughtered with a cruel Stanley knife. The debris set alight and burnt to cinders in a metal bin in the yard after dark.
Completing each piece, which was decided upon by a feeling as alien to Barry as painting, he would allow the work to rest there on it’s tripod for a few days, and allow himself to tumble through the vortex of colours. He would gaze into it night and day, tormented by a feeling that there was something he just had to remember. The moments, minutes, hours, days and nights of frustration had more than once resulted in Barry letting out a wail which terrified his parents, and neighbours. In the heavy silence which ensued, Barry would attend to the ritual of destruction. This hurt as much as it satisfied him The de-composure ending with fine ashes flitting about his head and falling onto barren flower beds.
One Sunday afternoon there was a knock on the door. Mr and Mrs Pye were out for the day, visiting relatives. Barry ignored the first knock. He thought it would be those strange people who sometimes called around on a Sunday being ever so friendly. They would tell him all about the apocalypse , and how if he brought some books, and went for coffee, he would be saved. Sometimes they frightened Barry. When Barry started to frighten them, they stopped calling. They still sometimes posted those magazines with pictures of smiling children and cute animals in sunny valleys though.
He heard the third knock and dropped the purple pastel he held. A strange feeling rose slowly from his stomach to his chest, from his chest to his throat, from his throat to his head. Then almost in a frenzy he left the room, ran down the stairs and opened the front door. The first thing he felt was the cold. The first thing he saw was the snow. It floated down. A soft, white, silence. It sparkled on the hedge, the gate and in the hair of the woman who stood there. Her lips were frozen in a half smile which was then broken by a wispy mist and the word ‘Barry’. At once he felt a chill keener than any blizzard and sharper than any hail storm. The voice did it. Seeing her aroused a feeling with which Barry had become very familiar. But when he heard that single simple word which meant everything and nothing, which he somehow knew, yet didn’t...he was overcome.
Powdered Words (nothing emerges)
in the twilight before the elder night forgotten remembered eggs crack dogs bark and faces are smeared bloody children drip black horror and terrify the rich and poor whose mantra is zombic my heart thumps thunderous the walls are ice my hands are burning there are cats and turtles universal are you sleeping is your horror let us sing of horror from bony plinths on crowded high streets you do not need glasses to hear the finely tuned ugliness nor a trumpet to see the discord of beauty my eyes see the day and the fakers who would do well to collect feathers we rest our elbows on dead moons sometimes we whisper or shout with opaque eyes so much time is taken up learning and nurturing guises the glass cracks now my hands are damp everybody looks afraid the circus it seems is a lot more fun than real life the lions are hungry the meat is rotting.
the glad flower could easily be crushed by mechanical impulses heavy words are thrown like wishing stones into foetid fountains we create ourselves without heart and are cruel we move without thought our nerves are taut or slack fortunate or unfortunate it depends if i tell myself where i am it will ruin an illusion am i locked out i can prove who i am by a picture with a hook kiss my mouth see the mask rip my feet are dusty here there are a severe lack of aliens many fanatics stare at the sky with tired eyes we suck air make beautiful noises glaciers melt and slide rocks are powdered the drake drags its tail across the skymould grows on portraits hung in futuristic galleries new dances are invented but the olden ones are the golden ones one day i will play a hard man for a laugh here there are angels it is all greedy blue look up they are flapping their wings tongues are weaving intricate webs silky and purple in their sacred mouths there is so much talent in the world each sketch is unique i will return as a singer to an audience thirsty for wormwood through a sickly mist i see the story change the light dissolve and suddenly i am old with a passion for flight and the weird i go like this with my head i go like this i go
Teacher
They hit me
Inside,
With words
Hard as the assembly hall floor.
They cut me
Out,
With silence
Sharp as Mrs Thomas’ devotional screeching.
Weekday mornings
Bound me,
Aching and bored
At the end of a uniform
Line of boys
Who would be men.
We sat in rows,
At desks inscribed
With legends like –
‘Mandy Jones is a fat slag’ and,
‘Barry Smith sucks cock’.
I once etched a winged heart
Pierced by a flaming arrow,
Which soon became obscured
By the name of some popular
Death metal band.
Before us,
You’d stand
Dishevelled and tired,
In a jacket, cords and cravat.
Cool.
I thought.
One day you acquired a new name...
‘Hand Job’
For something
You were allegedly
Caught doing in a stationary cupboard,
At lunchtime.
I kept the Velvet Underground and Zappa tapes
You recorded for me
You packed it in.
And I Looked forward
To the day i would walk
Through those gates
For the last time,
And scatter so many
Torn and useless words
Beneath a wide,
Late summer sky.
The day Christopher Reeves
Had an accident
Lilly sucks a strawberry ice,
Her lips are cracked
And bleeding.
Her teeth are smashed.
A limping man
Clutching a brittle carrier bag
To his chest with one hand,
Chokes on some super strength,
Spoiling some nice reject
Summer dresses
With a fine, golden spew.
The radio cackles –
A good old classic.
11.27 –
The swinging doorway to the city.
Plenty of cars and busses,
But no breeze.
One minute to midday.
No bells,
Just sirens,
A fallen superman,
And a plague of hangings.
The Hapless Bat
In your dreamscape
Crowned creature
Of the mysterious,
More treachery and tears
Than laughter and love
By being neither
There nor here
Small, dark, quick, sharp,
I, the hunter
Rising at dusk
See the day die with glory.
I hear your silhouette,
I dart at your head,
And here, trapped,
In your geometry
With circular uncertainty,
I scream
HERBY#2
Angel
The room was small. A black drape, embroidered with a silver emblem hung over the door. It covered the peeling white crosses that fenced in the frosted glass. On the window sill, against the backdrop of the black curtains, a company of crystals, stones and glass objects surrounded a clay vase holding a brittle red paper flower. Opposite the curtains, a weathered mass of wood leaned against the side of the wardrobe. A dismantled television, set upon a table, lay beside a lamp. Above this, a painting of a woman hung.
Michael got undressed and switched off the lamp. He held the painting in his mind's eye until by the time he pulled the red blanket up to his chin, the image had gone. It did feel strange, but that was how he knew the work was complete.
In the morning, he heard Jane and Linda chatting and the front door close. Then he got out of bed.
He finished his coffee, put on his boots and zipped up his black leather jacket.
There was a cue in the post office. Then he picked up his prescription, and sat in the chemist. An elderly woman wearing a navy mac, brown trousers and sandals hobbled in. She sat down and between coughing fits, mumbled to herself about this and that. Then she turned to Michael. “What do you want here fucker?” Michael examined the display of perfume and pills and saw, through a multicoloured lollipop tree, the pharmacist busying himself.
“Thank you”. The pharmacist handed the package to Michael.
Back at the house, Michael tried to read, but couldn't. Instead, he lay down, his eyes fixed on the painting. He closed his eyes and thought he could perhaps improve it.
The next day, he walked into town.
“That was a sigh and a half.” Michael was startled by the woman's words. His eyelids fluttered behind round, blue tinted shades. He picked up the bag and coins on the counter and walked out of the shop.
Michael put away the paints and poured himself a cold beer. It was unusual for Michael to drink beer in the afternoon, but it was a special day.
He thought about Jane sharing the same birthday. Apart from that and the kitchen and bath, they had nothing in common and had never got on.
The phone rang again as he carefully emptied another bottle into his silver tankard. He heard the tape in the answering machine wind and click, followed by the familiar bleep, bleep, bleep...
A violet candle was alight on the table and the painting rested on a wooden easel. Michael looked at himself in the mirror. He saw a smudge of crimson paint on his cheek, drew his hand across his face, and sat on the bed.
Some time passed. Michael heard music coming from the sitting room and people chatting on the landing. He opened a bottle of brandy and took a swig.. Then he picked up a brush of the table.
When the door opened he turned, and saw a woman staring at him.
“Hi.”
His heart thumped.
“What are you painting?”