Friday 13th November 2009

could be the most aargh! day of my life. I don’t know yet but I am holding my breath. I have been informed that my book (Walking On Chalk)  is being put forward as a proposal for the next read of a long-standing book club. I was so surprised that I offered them a discount on my personal stock instead of sending them down to Waterstones, haha… but oh, that would be nice, wouldn’t it? A group analysing, discussing and disecting my writing. Uhhhm, wouldn’t it?  Oh ok, I’m going to open a bottle of wine and try not to think about it.

Rememberance Day

I wrote this last year and the quote is from Henry Allingham, who passed away this year. This poem is published in the 20 minute section of my book, The Poet Busker.

 

 

 

New Podcast

It’s different. The words have been hanging around my head for a long time and then I thought, Brad style, just sit down and do it – reputation on the line. It’s called Fairy Steps. Click here to hear the podcast, right click to open a new window.

The words…

Fairy Steps

Lights

Camera

Butterfly pumps padding the sidewalk
In my self-imposed bubble of thoughts.

I can see them; muffled voices mumble
As I trundle along with an unwritten objective,

The rhymes chiming in a jumble of thoughts,
Machiavellian ampu-taunts behind this downward gaze.

Where’s the bloody script?
The ranting’s encrypted and bound in Jezebel’s bra…

‘The trailer’s being towed for a blowjob on Sunset Strip
by a whore who pays her clients with her husband’s credit card’,

While the begging question rolls in with the angry sky,
Just who IS paying for this crap?

Action!

As the director spits on my cheek,
Spots polka-dot the pavement, Bambi style,

And a pound is dropped from the left,
Slowing down the reel with a matrix fashioned mind-fuck.

A single glimmer of gold sears through the gloom
Arcing, triumphantly, imposing it’s high pitched clink,

Sending a dozen petty thieves scuttling
With the juggling overspill that vomits down the drain

Before the water soaks through to my toes
And the silence is louder than the tyres hush

And I keep moving as everything shuts
Down.

And cut.

By Kiersty Boon 2009

Not quite sure…

what to think about this. I’m all for taking poetry to the masses or is this another elitist, arrogant merchandising exercise under the guise of art?

Poetry in motion

This is much more interesting…

“I read in the paper that 90 per cent of tramps and vagrants get that way from a broken heart,” Cooper Clarke

Last part!

Indelible part one is under this link here (right click to open in a new window)

Indelible part two is under this link here (right click to open in a new window)

Indelible part three is under this link here (right click to open in a new window)

indelible (part 4)

It was the screaming that brought clarity. Or the vomiting – he didn’t know which.

Matthew had tried to be so careful. He had finished his first name from her left ear and across her throat in an old Italian script. The moment he touched the needle to her skin to begin his surname the skin appeared to disintegrate and the ink bled into her.

He didn’t panic at first, he just held it there watching the maggots crawl out, fascinated by how they made his name come alive as they danced underneath her skin. They started crawling up his fingers and that was when she started screaming. The pitch of her voice could have broken glass and almost immediately the neighbours upstairs started thumping on the floor like some kind of ironic bass beat to her soprano wailing.

And then there was silence.

He looked at her face and for the first time in nearly two weeks he wanted to kiss her. As he leaned over to touch her lips with his own, a fly emerged from her mouth and flew up to his face, hitting him above the eye. He started screaming again.

Matthew stood up and clawed at his own face, the flies around him buzzing their white noise so loudly that he thought they had burrowed inside his head. The neighbour started thumping on the floor again.

He quietened his screams to a whimper as he looked at her body. Where her skin was still intact, he saw the green tinge that his mind had twisted into a backdrop for his art. Matthew saw the beautiful dream world that he had created over her body being slowly eaten alive by maggots and flies; puss and shit seemed to ooze from open sores. The mattress was sodden with her bodily fluids, the stink of which finally hit his stomach.

The vomiting was uncontrollable but brief. He fell down to his knees and tried to breathe. The knife that he had used all those days ago was partially hidden under the bed. He pulled it out and looked at it. It was still stained with her blood. He stood up slowly and started to cry.

‘Don’t cry, Matty,’ she whispered.

Matthew looked at her smiling face and took comfort from it. He allowed the fog to take over his mind again so that he could speak to her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘I know, Matty. Now you’ve got to come with me…’ She spoke the words kindly, sisterly. ‘Come with me now, Matty.’

Matthew looked at her one last time. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and he had created her. She had completed him.

He lay down on the bed, laid his head on her chest and ran the knife over his left wrist… and then his right.

 

The End.

 

More free fiction – part three

Indelible part one is under this link here (right click to open in a new window)

Indelible part two is under this link here (right click to open in a new window)

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Indelible (part three)

Matthew returned at dusk. His stomach rolled as he opened the door and he immediately became irritated at the filthy state of the flat. For a moment, he just stood there wondering whether to turn around and walk out again. He knew that he could keep walking and leave it all behind once and for all. It had been an option he had run through his mind many times. He put his bag down in the hallway. As he passed the bathroom, he saw that it was still in the same state that he had left it this morning. A fleeting panic raced through his mind.

Matthew quickly walked into the lounge and over to the sideboard where he wiped a dirty glass with his t-shirt before pouring himself a large vodka – downing it straight and then pouring himself another. He walked into the hallway and along to her door.

He stood cupping his glass with his right hand. His left hand was clenched and balled into a fist so tight that he could feel his fingernails digging into his palm. Matthew raised his arm and hammered four sharp raps against the door. Another panic caused him to tense his whole body when there was no reply. He lifted his hand again but this time knocked on the door more gently.

Her reply was instant this time. ‘Is that you, baby?’ she said sweetly. ‘Come in.’ He pushed open the door and walked in with his head bowed, keeping his eyes down on the bare floorboards. ‘I’ve missed you today, Matthew,’ she said quietly. He looked at her feet. The cherub that he had done for her last week looked as though it was becoming infected. He put his glass on the bedside table. ‘I’m going to have to clean that up,’ he said and quickly left the room. He went through to the kitcen and returned with a bowl of warm water and a towel. He gently cleaned the tattoo, before washing his hands in the soapy water. Matthew removed the bandage on the arm that he had tattooed last night and saw that the skin of the leopard hadn’t even begun to scab. Many others were healing slower than they should. He applied some ointment to them, patting it in gently with the palm of his hand. ‘Are you in pain?’ he asked her quietly. The question made him nervous but, even so, he asked her the same thing every day. She stayed quiet, which irritated him further. ‘Answer me,’ he shouted. ‘No, Matty. I’m fine,’ she replied. He nodded once and stood up. ‘I’ll get my bag.’ He heard her sob as he left the room and so he waited outside for a few moments so that she could compose herself.

When he returned, his eyes darted to her face. She was lying on the bed, her head propped up on a pillow. She was smiling at him. He dropped his head again and walked over to the bed. ‘What do you want? Around your neck?’ he said, trying not to sound so angry with her. He looked at her chest. There was already a tattoo there of angels wings, the feathers curling up and meeting at the top to make a heart shape just below the nape of her neck.

‘I want you, Matthew. I want your name. I want you to sign your work so that I will always belong to you.’

His words were low, emphatic, ‘No, I won’t do that.’

‘Make my neck look pretty, Matthew. Let the world see what you’ve done.’

Matthew looked at her neck. He knew that he would have to concentrate, take care with the delicate skin.

‘Show them Matty. Sign your work,’ she whispered.

to be continued… (final part next)

More free fiction – ‘indelible’ continued

Part One can be found by clicking here (right-click to open in a new window)

indelible (part two)

Daylight pierced through a crack in the curtains and dazzled him awake. Matthew threw his arm over his eyes and worked his mind quickly to put everything into place; a daily ritual that ascertained this was his home, it was winter – today was a Tuesday – and that, yes, she was still here. His body felt weighed down. For a moment he wondered whether it would hurt to move. Without allowing the thought to take hold, he swung his legs to the ground, quickly pulling himself upright as he did so.
Matthew walked to the bathroom and pulled the light switch. The bulb immediately blew and he swore under his breath. He took the three steps to the sink and pulled the short cord to turn on the razor light.
It was as though the sudden whiteness screamed Matthew’s senses alive. The blinding fluorescent light showed him the deep crevices in his face and the black rings under his eyes. The sickly sweet smell of all her perfumed bottles and jars that lay around in a rainbow of colour, made him feel lightheaded and angry at the reminder that she was all around him. He lashed out with his arm and swept all those around the sink crashing down to the floor. The sound of breaking glass rebounded off the tiled walls, as the delicate bottles shattered at his feet, sending splintered glass flying across the room. He clutched the sides of the sink and held his breath; waiting to see if the noise would wake her. After several minutes, when he was sure she was still asleep, he looked up at his own reflection once more. He knew it was stupid to goad her like this. She’d always told him to be a man. Maybe he should step up to the mark.
He turned on the cold tap and splashed it onto his face. He felt a momentary satisfaction as his hands ran over his beard. It felt good… different. She had always preferred him clean shaven. He wetted his hands again and ran them through his dark hair. As he turned, he stepped on some of the broken glass and winced as the shard broke the skin on the sole of his foot. He looked down before purposefully taking a stride onto a larger shard and then another, trailing traces of blood as he left the room.
Matthew returned to the lounge and sat down on the sofa to pull on his trainers, ignoring the fact that glass was still caught between the fibres in his socks. As he left the flat, he hesitated before closing the door. He decided against slamming it shut and instead used both hands to ensure that it closed as quietly as possible.

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to be continued…

A little bit of free fiction for you this week – Happy Samhain

Indelible (Part One)

The leopard was creeping down her arm, its front paw resting gently on her wrist, prowling some unseen prey.

Matt was proud of his work. The colours were vibrant, the glassy eye perfectly inked, a slight hint of the texture of the big cat’s luxurious coat.

‘You’re a genius,’ she said.

Matthew avoided her gaze as he replied, ‘Thank you.’ He packed away his needles and inks, making a mental note to sterilise them at work the next day. He gently patted away the few persistent droplets of blood with a fresh cloth, before drying it and applying the bandage. Her skin felt cold and he avoided her attempts to stroke his arm with her fingertips as he secured the muslin. Her dry voice cut through the silence.

‘I want more,’ she said.

The words hit like a left hook to his stomach. Matt could feel himself getting angry; his head started to pound and his hands balled into a fist.

‘How much more?’ he said, trying to control his voice. He didn’t want the neighbours to hear them having another row and coming to the door again with another one of their constant complaints. He failed to notice that she hadn’t answered him. ‘You always want more. When are you ever going to be satisfied?’ he said to her.

‘Make my throat look pretty Matthew.’ He glanced down at her. Matt never used to say no to her. Things had changed.

‘It’ll have to be tomorrow. I’m tired,’ he said, stepping towards the door and reaching for the handle. The floorboards creaked under his weight. As he touched the door handle, a spark of static ran through his fingers. He grasped the handle tighter and jerked the door open.

‘Matthew? Do you love me?’ Her whisper was as clear as if she was standing beside him but as he looked back he could see her still lieing on her bed.

He took a moment to let the question hang in the silence of the room. ‘No. I don’t love you,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry.’ He felt his stomach roll and his throat filled with bile. He forced himself to swallow hard and quietly said, ‘but I will always look after you.’

He thought he heard her sob quietly before she replied, ‘Thank you, Matthew.’ Her voice was monotone, controlled. That made it easier for him.

Matthew closed the door quietly, went into the living room and switched on the TV. He jabbed at the remote until it reached the rolling news channel. He poured himself a generous shot of vodka, downing it in one, before lying on the couch. The drone of two politicians arguing melded away to white noise in his head. He hadn’t slept without the television on for two weeks now.

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to be continued…

podcast available by right clicking on these words – open in a new window if you want to read along

Rugby

Team playing should not be consigned to the pitch. When writers collaborate, the results are often fascinating! I’m going to post an interview I did with a fellow writer called Howie later this week but the latest was a poem I fell in love with and Brad Frederikson (probably sick of my nagging him to do it himself) of Maekitso’s Café fame, asked me to podcast it in my own fashion. A man’s poem when I’m a woman? Hmmm… let’s see what I can do…

Click here to hear the podcast (right click to open in a new window)

Sunday

Reflecting on what went, what came, what flourished and what sunk in a flurry of bubbles and froth.

Things are going to change around here.

This blog is taking a little change in direction to reflect more of my work rather than just as a notice board.

Tease me, test me, here I go.