MY TROUBLED MIND

confessions are self-serving

Tag: stream of consciousness

Charlie and the universe

And of course poor old Charlie full moon-eyed
and ten thousand years sad
always spalooging around crying out
into just empty tobacco pouches,
and falling asleep on sofas like some heavy-headed grandmother,
and ferreting away this or that charm
or knick knack like food in hamster cheek,
or squirrel with acorn in winter ground –
her and her little sacrosanct plants
against the whole damn universe
trying to make a go of it.

Self-hatred ebbs away like pus out boil,
it’s OK, it’s OK –
life is such a piece of cream pie
once you realise
you only have to breathe
and occasionally
smile.

 


Charlie Lindsay is an artist with big brown eyes and you can find her here

Leo’s last day

-We do the shit, waiting for the sun, bam, easy life – Leo sits on two water kegs – Fuckin’ hell, thirty degrees to the face, it’s hard, ah, putain, wow – Last day on South Beach, he’s been here almost nine weeks, no licence living in a stationary van, Gang Starr plays, stove set on the floor, the most black coffee hits my stomach, nausea slight, Marlborough  smoke expands like time inside, I lie back on towels, t-shirts, sleeping bag pillow, light comes in strong down the right windows, Luc reaches for watermelon brought in from outside, Leo elbows on knees, nods to bass line – I’m going to start doing my shit – To no one in particular, met with silence, a slurp of melon, turns his head and stretches long tanned arms back to rest on driver’s seat headrest.  Past him the woman I saw topless changing with big dog, bumper sticker – Good planets are hard to come by – Middle aged, whistles to the dog baseball cap purple top no bra, Luc jams to trade – they gonna see-ee – soul singer, bass line rolls away, Michael Jackson style, bottlecap graces the floor, though it’s been swept – In my mind-d – Leo sings, grabs a vest, shunts it into his face, inhales, yelps – One year of stink! Papa was a rolling stone! – Head bobbing like a strutting pigeon, flicks a shirt out and a spray of crumbs and scraps of plastic fly everywhere, scatter my journal – Sorry man – Luc hocking up phlegm, spits it onto the tarmac – Words can’t describe the feeling I feel, oh glory, Hove! – French guy I’ve forgotten name of stands outside reading my copy of Dennis Haskell seriously, hands it back some minutes later without comment. Open sour cream crust paperweights smoked salmon, baguette exposed to the air, joint smokes like a thread from a silkworm into the air, track begins – Is someone listening? Okay … – Dirty towel beige, blue, brown innocent dirt streak hangs over bumbag, tooth brush rests outwards like one side spooning lover. Vested man, 30s, backward cap mirrored glasses and trimmed beard looks in, away as he passes on, backs out in big black late model Jeep, Leo returns, stands outside with didgeridoo 30° into van, Luc flips his guitar to back and tap taps the wood with fast fingers, shouts something in French, Leo back, searches for a lighter, lifts some jumper up four inches, barely glances underneath before replacing it, repeats with the next item the same.

Old Dog Love

Excuse me, would you accept this?

The card is attached to a thick brown arm cut with a heavy silver watch,
the arm attached to a landscape torso, a bright turquoise polo shirt,
the polo shirt attached to tan neck folds, a sharp white beard, a jolly old face,
his eyes are swooping down on her;
short hair, grey, thin frames, sharp nose,
and she looks down, I urge her in my mind– look at him!
But she’s too embarrassed, oh thank you thank you
she plays it away, she takes the card, already moving past, away
with dirty cups, busy, waiter’s cloth under crooked elbow, shrinking smaller,

thank you so much…

You’re welcome, and he begins to move away, lumbering almost
along the refrigerated cakes, the chocolate eclaires shining
with tiny frosted teardrops,
the packed jars of biscuits you’d have to be mad to buy, the cash register,
his head sways to and fro as he moves, like a proud old bear, it’s only a few short steps, he turns the corner.

She reappears brisk as before from behind the counter, but something’s different
in the way she wipes, something’s different in the way she stacks the dishes,
snatches with practised fingers the salt, pepper, mayonnaise.
Has she changed the cloth? Is that a new pinny?
No, now I see, bless my soul, it’s a smile that wets her gentle lips!

As Is

I fumble for the USB jack, and for the keys. Everything is washed in cool light. Immediately my mug is there, a gift to me and made from a material I don’t know but love dearly. It has a solidity that comforts me. I get the jack in, my phone is hot, the air is still and tight with the pressure of signals I don’t understand. I reach for the door handle and get it, the night is cool, there is a breeze. Sounds of cars rise and climax and recline in front of me. I feel dirt and stones under my bare feet. I walk around the back of my car to a tree, the leaves are pointing to the ground, they’re darker than the sky. The bark is twisted and flaking as if in a period of transition. My piss lightly sprays my toes, for some reason this doesn’t bother me. My head goes heavy on my neck and I look at the sky, though the stars barely shine. The headlights of the roaming cars pull past incessantly. One car approaches on my road. It passes, I’m illuminated in the glare, brake lights, slows, pulls around. Inside the window is black. ‘Hey’ a man’s voice. ‘You were here this morning, you’re living in you’re car aren’t you?’ he says. ‘No’ I lie. ‘I was at work this morning’. ‘Do you want a beer?’ the voice asks, and I see two beers that look cold split V-like in his fingers. ‘Ah, nah, I got to drive off in a bit’ I lie. ‘Oh’ he pauses. ‘You want a cigarette?’ ‘Nah, I don’t smoke’ I lie. ‘Ahh right fair enough’ he seems reluctant. ‘Have a good night’. ‘You too’ I say, and I watch his lights scoop out the dark chocolate road, smaller, smaller.

CITY

The streets are rivers
which we navigate like short-sighted salmon,
picking an uneasy path, making slow progress-
faces rushing upwards like images in a dream;
Arabic noses, coarse beard hair,
black lipstick, a pulsing bosom
beneath a black top pulled taut,
knee length leather boots, hot salted beef
slurping on brown lips, a catch of hot grease
heavy air, fried meat, potatoes, garlic, caraway,
cardamom, sweet, sickness.
A level cut fringe dark above oriental eyes
so sincere, and prim school kids, flushes of racing green,
navy blues, schools of scuffed shoes, laces, velcro,
dainty fingers fashioning drag-like make-up,
a little arrogance in their numbers,
a little bravado in the boys, eager to prove,
nothing to lose,
an open palm, caramel, approaches,
spare change, spare change, he says
a man sitting on a flattened box in rags,
a simple sign at his feet,
a pathetic collection of coins,
one milky marble in a dark socket,
the other eye downcast, reverent,
as if in prayer.

Job Seeker’s Trousers

I got nothing to get up for in the morning, so I get up in the afternoon boom bow, there’s the September sun. No, curtain close it, hrumph I’m going back to sleep. Fine – I’m up finally, stretchy yawn still eyes are baggy sad at noon. See Dad’s old record player (tho new record player, old records) that I’ve hooked up in my room, and Bob’s Desire (Dylan I mean). The record is held in a sleeve within a sleeve within a sleeve, the first weakest as a withering sneeze, the second sideways like a crooked grin, the third a collage of Dylan et al, 1975. My 90s eyes can’t comprehend the amount of work that is put into such a piece, now no longer – I guess because no market – no money – and as we all know, money over everything (that is a Danny Brown ref.). Still, something nice about seeing it spin, and scratchy needle right place, see in Dad’s eyes yes, his memories are with these records, when he bought em, times he played um. Ahh I remember back in 2014 ‘Chill’ playlist on Spotify….that’s something no one will be saying ever, tho I guess nostalgia is condemned anyhow. Hurricane plays….

Down I go, dink donk dank Dad’s got wooden stairs the same I remember falling down in my dressing gown as a kid, navy blue and kinda felt feeling. Mum tried to kiss it better but it didn’t work, I got trashed down them stairs. Other times tryna run up – slip – BANG there goes your shin scraped dark birthmark all on it, dangerous. Still got the same shins now tho, but smarter so I don’t get smacked (smarter or slower?). There’s that brown carpet with patterns that I always thought looked like what are those things called underwater but like tornadoes? cyclones? And the sofa, or settee should I say and did say, back when I was sprinting towards it in slippy socks (thinking back I was a pretty dangerous idiot bull in a china shop kinda swagger) for my 50p pocket money for tidying my room. A pretty good wage now I think about it…

And there’s the kitchen door mostly glass ready to rattle and CRASH into apocalypse hooves as quickly as a little wind will say ‘hello’. There I go running again, now fresh grass smelling summer, SHUT THE DOOR – SLAM – SORRY MUM – I think tryna get the last hour of sun brown arms on my bike, looking down and feel the path underneath me pebbles and such. No aims, or means, but to feel them pebbles and cracks with wicked weeds creeping, and ants in their safety thousands tryna make a house a home, tho aren’t we all. (I always remember red ants, tho haven’t seen them in years). I guess it’s coffee time and open up the doors while I wait for it to brew, squint light and green square, all there, another day.