Behind the screen, I was putting my clothes back on
Thinking what the verdict would be in the white room
(I had been silently waiting my turn
Enjoying somehow the inevitable loss).
But then you dropped the pen,
And looked at the clean x-ray.
I took a chair and moved it back in the middle of the room.
As I sat down, my fingers just briefly touched your face.
I vaguely remember the conversation we had
But I know we said good bye
As I looked back, you waved,
Your left hand folding a notebook.
Since that day, I had been looking the word tenderness up
Just to see if you were right:
The fragility of a glass statue in front of an angry hammer.
It’s hard to tell, really, who invented the wine
And if Christ was the first to get drunk
And make a fool of himself.
For a while, we keep quiet.
I suddenly remember the terrible truth I came here to tell
And start by recalling my name.
I unravel the story: the other day I rescued a kitten; I found it covered in blood
Between the wolf’s sharp teeth
And took it home in my pocket
Nursed it back to life.
A couple of days after, the beast grew into a huge dragon,
Ate all my memories, my pictures, my long thoughts
And asked for my life.
I’m in a puddle of tears now, begging forgiveness.
It is a story, you said pouring another glass,
Which needs strong swearing words to go with it.
And for another while we sit still.
It’s getting dark, so dark, and this metaphysical shit
Makes my body a torch.
The room is getting lighter and lighter.
Both of us transfixed look at the naked truth as it stands,
Trying to put the pieces back together.
Our breathing stops.
Like two surgeons leaning over a nearly dead human
Trying to capture a better image of the tumour.
While everybody else goes to sleep
We look at each other still.
My eyes shine like in the old days
My mouth stained with red.
Hey, today I do not like apples
They remind me of lost teeth
And I do not sleep as I wait for the rain to stop.
I am ready to jump out of my skin
And say oi! come here world I’m ready to fight you.
You say not the fight is important
But the peace I will make with everything and everybody before I go
The way I love words and soap and your hands, as they quietly rest on the wooden table.
Hey, today I do not like letter ‘s’
It reminds me of separation but after all
You think without ‘s’ there would be no wide-sargasso-sea or stealth
And no serpent or sin or self regard but
A sudden absence.
And I …..keep…..quiet.
I let you start a revolution on my behalf
You the one to decide the colour of this red sea.
What will happen with my Facebook account when I die?
Will Facebook inherit my photographs, friends, preferences, statuses, history and, ultimately, my life?
What will happen with my Facebook friends when I die? With what I left behind, in my haste? Will they die too? Or will they just keep being friends with me? The dead me.
Will my Facebook friends still like me online and post their love letters and say good bye and hello to me?
But me, when I die, will I get to keep my friends, the alive friends, and take them with me?
Will my friends be dead too or alive?
If they alive, me dead.
The first pamphlet of our Stroud Writers Group is done, printed and ready to be launched, with the financial assistance of Stroud Arts Festival. The featured authors are Rick Vick, Adam Horovitz, Sian Breeze, Judy Newman, Tim Wilson, Paul Kelly, Maria Butunoi, Alex Breeze, Eley Furrell, Jessica Wynne, Diana Humphrey and Daryl Carpenter.
Cover image Fortunes of War, Paul Thornycroft.
Pamphlet 15is a collection of fresh poetry, short stories and flash fiction, ready to come your way. If you would like a copy, email me at firstname.lastname@example.org.