Manchester Evening Coming Down

Rain, too cold for August, hammers down from an unforgiving sky. A damp cotton hood does little to protect my aching forehead from the icy daggers. A waterline has worked its way up my jeans, slowly, like poison creeping towards the young Montague’s heart. My shoes- wet and heavy- are drowned corpses.

I’m not headed anywhere. There’s no reason to be out in this weather, but I walk all the same.

Hands in pockets, I drift through Piccadilly Gardens, my shoulders bump into strangers and I don’t try hard enough to avoid the tsunamis of bus splash wheels. The perverted lights of the amusement arcade pierce the dull night, grotesquely twisting the shadows of old men sharing cigarettes outside a betting shop. Under the concrete archway, Somali boys in brand new baseball caps laugh and huddle close together. A young couple kiss on the low bridge over the fountain, stopping to watch me walk by.

I pretend not to notice.

Bars and restaurants are full of strangers, as alien to me as B-movie atrocities. Lads clad in white t-shirt horror, swagger into the rain, oblivious to all as they shout and sing. Like brothers in a morgue, they all smell of the same cheap fragrance. Further down the road, men in pinstriped suits and no ties, talk on and on about mortgages and their daughters’ university fees and the state of test cricket. Their shoes seem dry- I wonder how they got there.

A beautiful woman rushes past me, her pendulum hips awakening butterflies in the pit of my stomach. A suitcase follows her towards the station like an enthusiastic dog, its wheels slip sliding on the wet pavement. I wish I could go with her too, but she moves faster then my serotonin depleted soul can manage. Soon, she’s out of sight, lost among a crowd of passengers in waiting. By the time I reach the taxi rank, I can’t remember what she looked like.

A left at the Star and Garter takes me into a tunnel’s cobwebbed womb. The flickering of the overhead yellow lights always play tricks on my eyes, conjuring phantom shapes to dance around me. I sit down for a while, finally out of the rain, back against the filthy brick wall of my haunted cave. Happily, I remember a can of beer in my bag. Passing pedestrians sidestep me, as if avoiding a fallen gorgon, careful not to make eye contact. Sipping the cold beer as the trains roll over head, I feel, momentarily, content.

Time travels, cars drive by and more trains pass above me. Two cops in diseased jaundice jackets walk towards me. I attempt to hide the can, but they don’t care either way. They just walk by. Using my hands, I get to my feet. Out of the tunnel now, I climb the hill through the industrial estate where balding men get blowjobs in maroon Cavaliers. Tyres screech as someone makes a get away, or perhaps begins a pursuit- I can’t say. Two whores in tall leather boots and high skirts stand beneath a single blue umbrella. Madonnas in boob tubes. I smile and say hello, but they just scowl and look away- disgusted by an uninvited traveller in this barren land. Unexpectedly, their snub hurts more than a lifetime of averted gazes. “Fucking Cunts,” I mutter under my breath- kicking a puddle and instantly regretting it.

In Ancoates, where the giants once were, amidst the rubble of burnt out mills and crumbling warehouses, kids- with the glowing eyes of hungry foxes- ride by on the back wheels of their bikes. I begin to think about the moon, invisible behind the clouds, and whether it really controls us. Are we just marionettes, twisting at the whim of Dianna’s silver strings? I pick up a litre of whisky from the nearest off licence, deciding that wheat and barley have stronger pulls than any lunar cycle.

The path along the canal is strange and muddy so when I manage to climb down there I’m completely alone. I watch the stadium’s floodlights reflecting in the murky water, which moves just as I do- propelled by a force we can’t understand. I continue my aimless journey. I am Nebuchadnezzar, king of Nothing. Through the lonesome dark and endless sheets of rain, I push onwards towards my kingdom. I’m going Nowhere.

The Death of Venice (A review of Old Story by Zoir)

A dignified death.

That’s all Simon really had left to hope for these days. After spending more than three decades as a copyright protection agent for a major record label, he had increasingly become sickened by his line of work. He couldn’t really put his finger on it. He was wealthy and working for an industry that many people, far more talented than he, had sold their souls to be part of. Maybe it was the thrill of the chase that he missed; back when the first MPC came out he used to handout lawsuits like they were fundamentalist hate pamphlets. With new advanced music recognition software anyone could do his job. Amateurs. Where were they when he was working undercover at Bronx block parties, sporting a ridiculous hi-top fade and listening out for Steely Dan samples? His name had been made by taking on the Zulu Nation. He’d given hell to those bastards, and he was proud to play his part in making a fiercely independent art form conform to the rules of his employers at The Majors.

Maybe this is was how Wyatt Earp felt, he’d think to himself. Once The West was won, what was there left to do? But Earp had Hollywood. Simon’s own autobiographical screenplay hadn’t even warranted a rejection letter. He was burnt out, an ageing relic of a history unknown. He wasn’t a hero to anyone- his daughter resented that he spent his life prosecuting teenagers for downloading music they couldn’t afford. Christ, he was pretty sure she was file sharing it too. But what could he do? Sue his own family? No thanks, he paid enough in alimony already.

Jaded, he’d made the big decision a while back. He had lived like a Narc, but he would die like a Roman Emperor. It was a simple plan, but quietly refined. He would see out his last evening in luxury. When his regal corpse was discovered, it would be clear that he had parted on his own terms.

Tonight was the night. Sweating and a little bit nervous, he began the ritual. It started, perhaps less divinely than he would have liked, by taking a dump. Ever conscious of his mortal legacy, he refused to be found amidst the ruins of his evacuated bowels. Emptying them of his own accord was his ultimate victory over Nature. Unable to adequately survey the dark forces stockpiled inside him, he sat there until he was certain that he was quite through. Satisfied, he donned his velvet dressing gown, opened a bottle of wine and sat on the sofa. He listened through the entirety of Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits (Warner Brother, 1988), enjoying his last mouthfuls of vintage Bordeaux.

Music was his life, and now it would be his death. It was timed to perfection. As No Question Asked (Nicks, Kelly Johnston) began to fade out, he stood. Next song. Next step. He marched triumphantly to the bathroom, accompanied by the Second Prelude of Bach’s Cello Suite (Yo-Yo Ma, 1983). His soundtrack was audible in every room of the apartment thanks to the central music system the Bose engineer had installed. After running through a full mental checklist, he disrobed and climbed into the warm candlelit bath. When Tomorrow Never Knows (Lennon/McCartney) began, he took his razor and cut through the flesh of his wrists, wincing as he sliced through tendon and skin. To avoid any unnecessary mess, he maintained an impressive resolve to carry this act out below the surface of the water. He closed his eyes and tried very hard to imagine himself floating downstream.

As usual with Simon, there were conflicting motives in this selection. The obvious reason was its reference to the Tibetan Book of the Dead. When his final playlist was analysed by a reverential detective, he was sure to be beatified. On a more personal note, he had made a lot of money suing artists for the unauthorized use of Beatles songs. Now all doubts and troubling thoughts were banished by the cheerful memory of bankrupting unknown bedroom producers stupid enough to sample Strawberry Fields (Lennon/ McCartney).

Lying in crimson water up to his neck, he felt calm, collected and proud that he had, at last, taken full control of his own destiny. He waited for his swan song to begin, already pre-empting the beauty of fading out to its glorious climax. Unfortunately for Simon Venice, it seems that fate was determined not to be outwitted by a man. Instead of hearing the opening organ and slide guitar of Free Bird (Collins, Van Zant), he heard a young boys voice speaking to him talking about old stories. What was this some kind of memory? Had he passed over? No something else. Drums. Oh Fuck. Fretless bass and piano arpeggios. Oh shit... oh God...Oh No. Please no.

He recognised it and knew what had happened. A few days back he'd been handed a copy of Zoir's EP to comb for copyright infringements. He'd given it a cursory listen in the car on the way home. It had made him feel vaguely uneasy and irritated so he decided never play it again. But something had gone wrong. Somehow this had made it's way onto his playlist, right where Free Bird should have been. He screamed, “No! This can't be! Free Bird! Free Biiiiirrrrrddd!”

He sobbed, muttering something about how “the bird changed” and began, as if by reflex, to analyase the tune to pinpoint the piano sample. “I'm gonna get this guy,” he spat. “He's history, wait till we file.” The obvious falsity of this statement only made him more irate. The music was taunting him. It had been chopped up so far beyond recognition he couldn’t make it out, not now anyway. There was a chaos wrapped around those notes, as if Zoir had crafted the beats just to torment a dying man. To taint his final moments.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the song came to an end. Maybe it was just that song, “If I leave here tomorrow,” he repeated to himself as if he could mentally control the computer in his living room. But he had to hope, and having lost so much blood, he was hardly in his right mind at this point. His petition to the gods of Southern Rock was in vain; as the synths of “It's on There” began to surround him he couldn't help but think of all the unanswered prayers of his youth. A torrent of bitter memories ran through his mind. He'd always been a disappointment to everyone he knew. And now his daughter, what would she think?

Fuck.

His contemplation was broken. The warm ambience and vinyl cracks of the song's intro had taken him on an introspective journey but it was soon severed by a total aural assault. It was as if Future Sound of London had OD’d on ketamine and been reborn as vengeful wraiths hell bent on ruining his party. He'd been in some tricky positions throughout his life, and usually managed to remain fairly calm- but in that moment he lost all self control. He lifted his arms out of the water. He instantly regretted breaking his first and most important rule.

Arterial blood pulsed slow and irregular from the demented grins on each of his wrists. Monochromatic rainbows arched sureally around him. Profundo Rosso. Deep Red. The whole world had been whitewashed and was being painted red by a mad man. This was not the plan. This could not be allowed to happen. Simon Venice was gripped by an irresistible force of self preservation. Vanity is a man's downfall, but also his greatest strength. “If I get out of this, I'll let Zoir know he saved my life,” he thought wistfully. Imaging his face on the cover of various True Story rags, he pulled himself out of the tub.

He tried to stand but was too light headed. Reaching for something sturdy, he put his hand on the toilet roll holder and lost his footing. Simon fell over. His fall was broken by the hard porcelain of the toilet, which his mouth wrapped around. Teeth cracked and tore through his lower lip. Lightning. Pain. He crumpled to the floor. Above him the bog roll was still spinning, coating him in paper like freshly fallen snow.

Resigned to defeat he finally let go. Simon Venice was overwhelmed by a feeling that his heart was pumping in time with the wonky Dupstep crawl of “Resh Kesh then Repeat”, struggling along and missing every third beat. He reached a stage of Zen like acceptance. This was it. This is what he was listening to and he was powerless to change it. He began to drift into unconsciousness.

It felt a lot like some of the trips he'd had back in the seventies. Strange patterns began to form on the walls and he had a hard time looking at anything for very long. He zoned in, blacked out and came back around again. Synchronicity. First his body had mirrored the music and now, as he became too weak to maintain any clarity the music blasting out of his speakers began to do the same. The fluttering samples and stunted beat of “How Far?” perfectly matched his fluctuation between Being and Not.

And then it was over. The EP that is. The silence was so loud it hurt his ears. A last injection of strength coursed through his broken body. “What?” He howled, fuelled by a hatred of Biblical proportions. ”This can't be right. How can a whole EP be shorter than fucking Free Bird!?”

Old Story is out Now

Waiting

From the rocker on his porch, the old man watched the silhouettes appear on the horizon, barely specks descending the low treeless hill a few miles west of his cabin. He made no effort to gauge the time by the evening sun and needed not make any calculations as to the time of his visitors’ arrival.

A cool breeze ran through his tattered red shirt. Wind chimes sounded. He had crafted them from wood, so many years ago- a gift for his wife. The sweet sound, different each time yet so familiar, had always soothed him, and in these his last years, they heralded memory’s ebbing tide. So simple, just wood and string, but what else was required? The ancient notes, random and to no meter, were an immortal tribute to the old oak tree, which had been ripped from the earth in a fierce storm. In fact, it had been that very tree which had finally convinced them to settle there after so long on the dusty trails. Majestic on the banks of the fast flowing creek which cut through the stead, it summoned feelings they were beginning to forget. Home. Over the next decades it had rewarded their faith with shade from the sun and- once the children were born- leant its strong branches to climbing feet, untamed imaginations and rope swings.

Sad eyes, which had seen their fair share of both horror and beauty, tracked the travellers as they steadily made ground towards his home. Men had been here before- to rob and to destroy- but he’d always been able to keep them at bay. He’d had the boys around then though, born and raised on this land, they’d been a match for any newcomer. That was then. Now he was alone and all that was left to defend were the ghosts of a past more real than the present. More certain than the future. Alive within and around him, they spoke with each creak of the house’s wooden frame. In the tall grass, not far from where he sat, he still thought he could see his youngest son’s blood. A dark crimson pool had had welled up just short of the porch steps. That was the end. It had been just him and his daughter after that, for a few years at least, until the winter of the Fever. He found himself alone on land that he had always expected to share. Yet he could not leave; everything that was Him was here. So he remained.

Alone. But never without companionship. Perhaps, when he’d been young he wouldn’t have understood- but, somehow, he was content to sit back and watch the reflections of his life ripple in the wind of time. His life had been a full one, tainted by sorrow, untouched by regret.

The moment approached, riders passing a plot of land marked by five wooden crosses. He had buried them all himself, each time with one less pair of hands to help. There was not a soul left to put him in the ground, when the day finally came. Was this it? Surely, he had survived worse odds, but each day that passed was one less left to live. He waited. There was no point to rushing, nothing to be gained through recklessness.

Around him, songbirds sang their merry hymns of tranquillity. Soon they would flee, to be replaced by buzzards and crows- one way or another.

He breathed deeply, slowly reaching to his right where his rifle rested. He felt the familiar weight as he lifted it to his shoulder. The blueprints of his house were carved deep into the calluses of his hands and his aim was steady. As he waited, he recalled that he had used the same gun to put down the horse that had carried him here. And he thought, “It’s funny what you think of when you’re old”.
.

photo by Fazal Sheikh

A Clubber's Guide to The Cosmos

He exhaled the thick, sweet smoke. A shudder worked it's way up his spine- a telegram wishing him a fond farewell. He was cold, but his palms were clammy. Fidgeting, he felt himself gripped by a familiar nausea. As the bluish cloud began to dissipate, the world around him also became, somehow, less solid. Voices, punctuated by giggles and hollers, swam around him. No longer able to make out the meanings of these words, he slouched in his chair imagining himself to be alone among the crowds of Babel. The joint made it's way around the circle of contorted faces, and after what may just as well have been several days, he found him self staring at it, held tightly in the shaking vice of his index finger and thumb. He had a flash of recognition- a picture rather than words- that this mystery plant, now burning to ash, had once been an animal walking the earth. An archetypal spirit which had found peace in the earth and grown roots.

Words. They floated around him, beckoning. Yet his tongue searched a parched mouth and found none in reply. His eyes darted around the room again, wondering how his companions could have become so unfamiliar. Fingers grasping in air, breathing became more difficult. Alone. Darkness encroached upon his vision in pulses which reminded him of a birthing child, and then with one final push, he was somewhere else altogether. Gripped by a terror which has no mortal name, he was surrounded on all sides by a sea of fire. Far in the distance he could make out a castle, made of black stone in a twisting architecture unknown to man. The structure was circled by five pillars, and resting on top of these was a seven pointed star. Gazing towards it, he remembered (no, relived) the moment his father had finally walked out on him after beating the living shit out of his wretch of a mother. He was suddenly young again. A virgin. Eyes. Hands. Laughing. Stomach. Love? He had thought so, but the words had failed him. He watched again and again and again as his life approached choices to which he had taken the route least desirable.

Is this it? Am I dying? Is Hell but an eternity of reliving our mistakes? Our fears? Our regrets? Our death? Perhaps this is Eternity, to endlessly repeat our own deaths, only realising when it's too late, that you have already been through this. A feedback loop of despair. An Ouroborus of humiliation. Well if it is, then fuck it all. I can take it. Is this really all you can throw at me, you faded Morning Star? Shoot. Go on. Hell, I know I fucked up. But I figure, over the course of an eternity, I could get used to anything. Anyway, every path leads somewhere else in the end, and even if I had shot my load that night, things could have turned out a whole lot worse. You don't know. You never get to find out. If that's all You've got to throw at me, then Dante was one mother fucking pussy-assed son of a whore.

Release. His eyes opened and he was back in the club. A woman. Beautiful. Ivory skin and hair like a moonless night. She stroked his face. “It's all right,” she whispered. “Drink this.” And she handed him a chalice of a red wine like he had never before tasted. It had clearly been fermented from grapes, but it's aroma hinted that it had been infused with a flower. Which? It mattered not at this time. He drank. And as he stared into her green eyes, she bent towards him and kissed his mouth. “Come,” she whispered. “It's about to begin.”
“What's you name?” He stuttered, amazed that words had left his mouth at all.
She laughed sweetly. “My names? Well, I guess, Lilith will do for now.” And with that she stood up and held out her hand.
“Lilith.” The word seemed to hang in the air indefinitely. “Where? Where are we going?”
“To the Binah Club. You really don't want to miss it.”
 He stood and let her lead. The room was now empty except for a bartender, who, looking up from mopping a table, nodded to Lilith. Not acknowledging this gesture, she glided towards the back of the tavern. He followed. Through the door and into the night she led. And into the night, he followed. There was no conscious decision to accompany her, no desire see what she had in store for him. But he felt no resistance, so he followed.

In silence, they made their way through winding cobbled alleyways, so narrow that the slanted tenement walls rubbed against his shoulders. It had rained earlier and now a low rolling fog limited visibility to just a few feet. As his legs moved him forwards, as if completely disconnected from his mind, he was reminded of the stories he had heard of the Ferryman who guided the recently deceased to the Underworld. He wondered for a moment if she had read his mind, for now he found himself stood beneath the gates of a dark and unwelcoming cemetery. For the first time since he had met Lilith, he tried to resist, to fight, to pull away, but he could not. So he followed. He followed through the gates, which, on closer inspection, appeared to be made of bones, although a thick coating of ash prevented him from being certain. So, his uncertain legs carried his uncertain body deep into the blackened abyss of the graveyard, until, without warning, she stopped. He watched as she knelt on one knee before a patch of soil which had recently been disturbed. And from this mournful ground she picked up two red roses, which in that dark place seemed the shade of coal.
“The price of admission,” she explained, taking his hand once more and leading him back past the the tombs and headstones, the obelisks and crosses, angels, and stars- memorials to lives once lived but no more. Bodies spent, devoid of humour or goodwill, eternal dreamers in a land with no sun. They passed through the gate of bone in silence, back into the winding network of nightmarish alleys. He was disorientated, lost in a city he had thought he had known well. Twists and turns, ascent followed by decent- past filthy beggars grasping his coat sleeves.

It was with a great sense of relief that they exited they exited the maze and stood in a court yard. Tall, windowless buildings lined three sides of the clearing, mouse hole alleys all but invisible in the darkness. Directly in front of them, at the far end of the courtyard, stood a tall triangular structure with no distinction between wall or roof. It was built of black marble, and, illuminated by torches along the wall, he could see that three great swords had been etched into the hard surface above an imposing doorway. Each sword pointed skywards. The one set in the middle was a straight blade, which, at it's point, impaled flower. The swords on either side of it, Arabic in design, curved outwards, as if repelled by it's violence. A wreath had been carved into the marble, encircling the symbols. Other than this, there were no other markings visible on the front of the building. Even without a name, it seemed fairly obvious that this was where the Night had taken him.

At the door way stood two men dressed in long dark gowns and hoods which cast shadows across their faces. Upon recognising Lilith, they bowed their heads. “Your guest is most welcome, my Lady,” the doormen spoke as one without looking up. They entered a great hall, lit by torches along the walls and candles on each table. Smoke hung heavily in the air, creating patterns of swirling beauty in the flickering light. As the other guests noticed their arrival, the laughter and excitable chatter which filled the room slowly died down to a silence, punctuated by a few irreverent whispers and coughs. He sensed they had been waiting. Lilith (or whatever her name was- he had heard several different ones whispered on their arrival), lifted her left hand, index and middle finger aloft, in the fashion of papal benediction. With that gesture, the crowd came to life again. On stage a sombre trio of piano, double bass and drums played slowly, accompanied by a female vocalist who sang in a style he was unfamiliar with. It was rather nasal and droning, finding a note and holding it for a long period, somehow creating overtones and harmonics. He did not need to ask, without any prior experience of such gatherings, he was sure that this was an invocation of some kind. In fact, as he looked around him he felt oddly familiar with the setting. It was a stark contrast to a night full of questions, for suddenly he felt embraced by a peculiar sense of Knowing. Perhaps not knowledge which he could freely put into words or explanations, but a sense of order which struck a chord with his inner mind.

Looking around he realised that he had lost sight of his hostess. Feeling at ease now, he found himself a seat at a small round table, occupied by two women deep in conversation. Not really listening to what they said, but soothed by their sultry voices, he sat back and soaked in the scene. Before long, a small man darted through the crowd and placed a metal goblet full of wine on the table. The man bowed bowed awkwardly and made a quick retreat. The women of the table acknowledged him now for the first time, raising in their own cups. He followed suit and as their vessels clanged together, the lady to his left toasted, “Three cups become one, drink now to Abundance.”

They drank. The wine tasted similar to what he had been drinking earlier, he felt certain now that it was lotus which supplemented it. He was aware now of how beautiful these women were. The woman to his right, whose dark black glistening skin seemed to beckon him, leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Yes, let's drink to an abundance of pleasure. ” Breathless, he felt overwhelmed by his lust. The woman on his right, who wore long blond hair and who's skin was like that of a porcelain doll, leaned into his other ear. “And an abundance of the senses,” she purred, kissing him lightly on the cheek. He could barely contain himself, yet as he tried to speak, words refused to cooperate. He stuttered and stammered. Speechless. They giggled and turned their attention back towards each other, talking and touching and, before long, kissing passionately. Perplexed but content, he finished the remainder of his wine. Around him, he noticed that similar scenes were unfolding around the room. The air practically dripped with sweating desire. Moans of pleasure surrounded him, sending prickly shocks of electricity up his spine. Yet he could not move.

After some time, a gong sounded and the spell was broken. The divine creatures with whom he sat, broke free from each other and looked towards him. “It is time,” they said in unison, although he noticed that neither had moved their mouths. As they stood, he saw that both held a single rose. He observed as they walked to the front of the room and placed their gifts on the stage, before parting ways and disappearing into the shadows. Rising, he made his way through the tables and placed his own rose on top of the pile. A sense of apprehension prompted him to head towards the back of the hall. He found a cushion on the floor and, sitting cross legged , he waited. His eyes were locked on the stage.

Several large speaker cabinets were wheeled onto the stage by men wearing grotesque masks. When they had finished stacking amplifiers on top, they scurried off, using their hands and feet to move. Moments late they returned, labouring comically over two large drums. After much to and fro-ing, the scene was set up and they tumbled off the stage. The crowd applauded these demonic roadies with tremendous enthusiasm, clearly impressed with the show so far. Shortly after this, four men walked, slowly on to the stage. Each of them were dressed completely in black and each had long dark hair past their shoulders. He was taken back by how large they were, with tattooed arms bulging out of their uniform vests. In fact, the sheer masculinity of this band seemed strikingly at odds with the overwhelmingly female crowd. Fascinated, he cheered with the rest of the audience as the men stood in centre stage and bowed. The sinister stage-hands reappeared, placing a stool on either side of the pile of roses. From the rafters, dropped two long ropes, each ending in a noose. Two of the darkly clad musicians turned and climbed onto a stool each and then, simultaneously, placed nooses around their necks. Their companions handed them a guitar each, before heading to their respective drums.

For a moment they were still. The silence in the room was palpable, and although it lasted but a few seconds, seemed to span a lifetime. And then it began. He felt it, before he heard a sound. It was as if he had been hit by a flash flood, such was the tremendous force of the music. A low, throbbing eruption of guitars burst from the speakers. At first he recoiled, like a Pompeii statue, totally unprepared for such a sonic onslaught. After this initial burst he began to acclimatise. The sound waves were nearly visible, as glasses shook on tables and the crowds swayed along. In a trance he spread out his arms and let himself be taken away. Around him, audience members lay on the floor, writhing in ecstasy as the vibrations worked up through bodies- from their feet up to their crowns. He felt himself returning to the womb, comforted by the terrible embrace of Apollo. The drums thundered. He imagined Thor and Odin and Hydras and Syrens and the constellations and the fall of Rome. Poseidon's trident and Baldr's death cry, an end of history. He was consumed and he consumed, entranced by a magic unknown.

After a few minutes, the first glass smashed, pushed off it's table by the fluctuations of the room. It was followed by several more, and regaining his senses he noticed that the stools, on which the guitarists were stood, were also moving. Still the drums beat steadily, holding the ritual together in powerful explosions. In awe, he watched as the stools shook and slid across the wooden stage. Bit by bit the pieces fell together. The men played in unison, striking their instruments as one, moving to manipulate the magnetic fields surrounding them as one- as if the whole scene had been choreographed. He stared, eyes locked, as the unthinkable became the inevitable- as the stools skidded and slid, shook, shuddered and jolted, the men balanced precariously upon the razor's edge of life. Time no longer counting, the curtain call came as the guitarists, fell- losing footing at precisely the same moment. As they dangled, the musicians- somehow- resisted the urge to grasp at the tightening nooses. Instead they held their final chords throughout their final moments, and beyond. As their companions swung, gasping for their last illusive breaths, the drummers increased the intensity of their rhythm, pounding furiously and ever more quickly. The low rumbles of the guitars transmuted into squealing feedback as their masters' hands moved no more.

He watched in awe as the bodies swung, pendulums of decay. As the crowd began to regain their senses, as laughter broke the silence, he was unable to move. Mouth agape. Paralysed.  Erect.

The Cab Driver

Did you tell them that you wanted to put that TV in the boot? No? Well it will be an extra two pounds on top of the fare. Come on, come on- what are you going to do... walk it across town? Get in. Now where to? Hulme? OK, I know the quickest route, we will get you there on the double-you must be eager to plug in your new TV. And what a beautiful machine it is as well.
What's that? You are giving it away? That's the most beautiful thing a man can ever do for a friend. I have given away many TV's myself. But sometimes people won't even take them. For example, recently I wanted to replace my old Sony big screen- 47 inches! So I called friend after friend after friend, but no one would have it. Why? Because it wasn't a flat screen, can you believe it? They would turn down this, only a few years old, because it wasn't the newest. They said it would take up too much space! Ha! Too much space, come on now. Well, since I couldn't get rid of it I put it in the garden shed, so that I could watch it when I'm outside. Perfect!
So now I have a TV in every room as well as one in the garden. My wife just doesn't understand. Women! Ha! Can you believe them? But when she has to go and use the toilet during the middle of Corrie, now she can turn on the little 19” Hitachi I mounted on to the wall. I know she thanks me- but she won't ever say say so. Women. Are you married? No? Well that's good, you're still young. My daughter has just started University, we're very proud. I gave her an old television for her room as well, it was no longer being used and she will need it. My other daughter is much younger, so I start driving early and get home by 3. She has a TV in her room also, never too young, right? She doesn't get the adult channels though, those are just for the living room. Ha! But don't tell my wife! Ha ha ha!
Well we're nearly there, let's hope they are home. Are they expecting you? Of course, of course- you wouldn't just come by with a TV in your arms if they weren't. Only a madman does that! Right?

The Visitor

Thresholds fold. Solid Gold.
Two lungs full of water

I awake inside a chalk triangle, unable to move. Mucous coated. Foetal response. Shouts from the shadows.

Candles flicker, their dim light blinding to eyes so used to blindness.

Tongues of Angels pronounce catastrophic. I am surrounded by visions and memories, echoes of a past and future no longer separated by the razor blade of Now.

A stream of blood makes it's way towards me, a slow roll across wooden floorboards. As it touches the apex of my geometric prison it becomes two, branching out along the white outline.

Choking cough, splutter.
Gasp.
Finally, I exhale.


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Excerpt from Chapter IV (A Novel)

A rogue beam of early morning light cuts across the room, having easily out flanked the filthy towels and bedding I flung over the broken curtain rail. Apollo’s plague tipped arrow, announcing the horrors of a new dawn, a new day, a new ruin. A headache. The shadowy creatures of the other world are still nearby, but becoming less tangible, slipping back into the void I had dragged them from. Forgotten. Symbols with out meaning, like the mysterious Star of Babel (how many points did it have again?), conjure fevered debates without conclusion, restless discourses and oafish rebuttals. No way of telling what’s being said anymore, the walls of this absurd theater are forever expanding, the chorus’ voices echoing, merging in to one unspeakable tongue.

I'm twisting, still fully clothed from the previous evening, trying to find a position that doesn't invite spasms of pain. The sickening sweet taste of undigested whiskey lingers in the back of my dry mouth, one wrong move and it will break free of it's corporeal prison. I grab a pillow and wrap it over my face, providing slight relief, then remain as still as possible- occasionally shifting slightly to whimper like a wounded animal.

Of course, this ritual is performed in vain. I am well aware that in just seventeen minutes my alarm clock will begin to shriek. Try as I might to drown this abhorrent thought in a sea of Nothingness, it rises back to the surface like rotting log. That cursed clock. As I lay awake it's designed function is no longer valid, but rather than allow it's circuitry to be reduced to redundancy it has evolved. Once Chronos' slave, now it is his most trusted oracle. It breathes inevitability. Previously, that piercing sound was like a slapstick tug out of the dreamworld- it left me reeling, disorientated, angry in dazed wonder. But the days of comically chasing my clock around the room- Grasping. Missing- are gone. I'm already awake. In fact, in these moments I exist only to wait for it.

Waiting for the prophet to emerge from his cave. Knowing that his trumpet call signifies a painful transition. Lying here, red eyes shielded by a pillow from the sun, my body petrified in booze soaked agony, I know that the worst is yet to come. This is only purgatory.

Still I try to forget. There's another part to this ritual. I lay on my back imaging a white light. The aim is to concentrate on the light until it fills my consciousness, leaving me blind and content. Well, that's the theory anyway. Today it flickers like a hanging bulb in some shit smeared brothel- for an instant it increases in luminosity before fizzing out into the dullest glow. I strain my mind to bring it back but it's going the wrong way, into darkness and beyond. The point that the light once occupied in my mind has become a roughly torn hole through my dark prison walls, opening up an infinite new realm of shadows. I can hear voices calling to me from outside, beckoning me towards them. I stay put. But there's no escape and they come in. Howling my name, the Hordes approach. They bring with them visions of the coming day, or perhaps memories from the previous one- it's all the same.

Gasping, I open my eyes again. I look towards the clock. Three minutes left. Resigned to defeat, I lay on my side- never taking my eyes from my digital tormentor. I wonder why I'm doing this to my self again, if it would really be so bad to be one of Them? Surely, a roof and four walls can't be worth this. Stability. The irony of the word is enough to make me laugh aloud. Stagnation would be more apt. One minute to go. My thoughts fall silent for the first time since I woke, I am overcome by a tiredness so heavy I can't resist. After a morning of squirming restlessness, I now feel as if I could sleep all day. Maybe I'll stay home. Tell them I'm sick. Hell, I won't even call them. Maybe I could-


I am interrupted by The Sound.

Moloch has spoken.

I obey.

Eulogy

In a small chapel in rural Pennsylvania a small crowd barely fills the first 5 pews. The dank stone room is lit only by the green and red beams being projected from the stain glass windows. The streams of light point directly at a coffin at the front of the room. A sparse arrangement of dead and dying flowers decorates the wooden box, an unshaven man limps slowly to the pulpit and begins to speak.

Speaker: Well, I don't know what you can say about a guy like Larry (fidgets uncomfortably and clears his throat). He was fearless, that's for sure. And damn good at pool for a man blind in his right eye. But mostly I'd say he was devoted. Not a devoted father, I guess (nods solemnly to Brenda Jean and Cornwallis who sit on the front row -eyes locked on the coffin) No he wasn't that. Not a devoted employee either, don't reckon that old fart ever put in an honest days work in his life... (a few chuckles from the back) Well, y'all know there's a whole list of things Larry wasn't devoted to- his country, his women, his goldfish or his social and moral responsibilities. But that's not why we're here... and that's not why Larry's here either.

No, Larry devoted his entire life to a dream. Every fibre of his being was dedicated to reaching his ambition. Now- and I pray each day that God will forgive me for my lack of faith- when Larry told me about his vision I thought he was out of his mind. "You've got to lay off that damn pipe" I said "always locking yourself in your basement, smoking the rock for days on end and coming up with these crazy ideas". But Larry was not to be discouraged, and I truly believe he was on a mission from the Lord himself (chorus of amens from the pews). At the time, though, we were just kids, 16 year olds with the world in front of us. I remember it like it was yesterday, Larry came up to me with his right eye wide open and his left one all pointing somewhere else the way it used to. Larry, he comes up to me and says "Theodore, listen to me, I know why I was put on this earth. I've been drifting aimlessly around stealing and robbing, speaking hatefully to my elders and plain old wasting my life. But I've got a purpose, Theo, a vision. I am going to find out exactly how far a man can fall and stay alive.

And that's exactly what he did, he started that very day, climbed right on up to the top of his Aunts old oak tree, hung by both hands and then with an all mighty holler he just let go and dropped to the ground like a dead duck. My my my... he layed there still for a minute just groaning and drooling and then goes and pulls himself to his feet and starts walking around like nothings just happened. From that day on I was a believer. Now, he had other disciples, Judases mainly, but some were good men who didn't make it to be here today- but they never knew Larry like I did. I only ever tried falling myself one time, from the top of this very church believe it or not. Broke my leg in 15 places and have never been able to run let alone climb to the top of buildings and leap off. Now, you may question my devotion, but Larry never did- and in return I was with him every time he fell, there to pick up his teeth for those first weeks when he still had some. I was there when he landed on a small boy who was playing hide and seek. I was with him in every time he checked in to the hospital and was still there every time they wheeled him back out of the operating rooms. And I tell you what I never heard that beautiful man complain (Shouts of "That's Right" and "Hallelujah" echo through the building). No not once did he utter a single doubtful word or curse his maker for sending him on such a doomed mission. Instead he'd just be laying there planning his next fall.

Within a few years Larry was falling from as far 60 feet, and when he sensed he'd gone about as far as he could he'd jump from exactly an inch higher the next time. Larry was a religious man
and had little use for science, but he was a lot like a scientist the way he measured those drops writing them down in his book when he still could, and then telling me what to write in his later years when he could no longer move below his neck. Anyone remember when he first got that electric wheel chair, the way he used to sing as he rode round town? (coughs and then in a crackling baritone begins to sing) "I use da wokka ronda blocka now I dryyyyvaah!". We built a winch to get him to the top for each fall, and when he could no longer speak there was no question that he still wanted us to hoist him up an inch higher than last time. Now I think my time's running out, and I've said more than I intended to... but I've got one more thing to say. The priest won't let us bury Larry in the cemetery because he took his own life, but I want to say, as God is my witness, that Larry never jumped to die- Larry fell to live.

Friendly Advice

Never fall in love with an angel if you don't have the wings to follow her.
For even if you manage to reach the silver lined summits in which she abides,
there is no safe route back down.
And when she moves towards her next cloud, as angels
free to roam the vast expanses of time and space, always will
you just might find that heaven can be a very lonely place.

Never mistake Beauty for Tenderness, Tenderness for Love, or Love with Ecstasy
all of these are capable of existing without the other.

Never lock yourself away
without an adequate supply of pens and paper
never begin writing if you already know
how you are going to finish

Never expect others to be as enlightened as you are.
Never believe that you are more enlightened than others.

Never forget the words the prophet scratched into the stone
of your heart


Never mistake a stolen moment for a life time

Never fall in Love with an angel
again