Poetry, story, Uncategorized, Writing

for the love of strangers – I


The Lovers by Rene Magritte (1928)

she had waited for days. those days seemed to expand. every second, minute, hour expanding, encompassing eternities. everything else seemed to float around this future day. existing as a vessel for her fevered anticipation. the world thrumming, in sync with her body, caressing her fantasies, waiting for her to abandon pretense, civility, even empathy. the world would be swallowed up by her flame. all life drowned and lit up with her desire.

These Trembling Hands Must Be Stopped!!!!


To an ex-lover (that's you by the way..)
We have reached the end, haven’t we? I wish you the best in the future although that is an empty sentiment I think. What does my opinion or how I feel come to bear on your future decisions. For that matter - just to rub salt in whatever small wound this departing may have caused - what influence did my opinions or feelings ever have in relation to your future plans? You had already made your mind up long before you had met me it seems and your plan was always to return home and re-unite with him.  It’s a shame that you chose to inform everyone else in your circle of friends before me, leaving me to play a guessing game and wind myself up in emotional knots about your imminent departure. As is my want, I blamed myself and thought that there must have been something I had done or something I was lacking in that had motivated your decision rather than apportioning any blame to the other party. I had put you on a pedestal when I tried with every fibre of my being not to. I told myself not to repeat the same mistakes. But the fire in my heart was too strong, overwhelming and I once more feel powerless to a lover’s callous whim, stumbling away from the aftermath like a little boy cast out of paradise, an outsider once more. But let’s not recriminate too much, there was love or affection there after all. It was was it was but I was just blind to see it for what it really was and I let my fragile ego and self-loathing govern my behaviour leading us to this. Miles apart. It’s too late. The lightness has gone. No easy give and take. Replaced by a air of tragedy, intensity and expectation, by the notion that our little drama means nothing both within the everyday and extraordinary. I showed my hand and was honest; after the fact yes, once you had go on the plane sure, but I did it. That was an immense risk for me. Years of acting like an adult and some of those years simply acting have made it easier to mask emotions but inside the fragility of that little boy remains. So what remains to be said? Thank you for allowing me to feel alive again and fuck you for striking me down into the earth once more. Perhaps there is no blame. Just two confused people making decisions or not making decisions, bad timing, things left unsaid, regrets, moments of intimacy lost to time, breathing, kissing, laughing, arguing as one. It was not meant to last. Nothing is. This is life right? Love? It never goes away, remains a mysteryhangs around, comes back again, maybe. But love is everywhere, romantic love is an illusion we just can’t live without. Goodbye once more, goodbye. Deluded fools, the damned lot of us.
Having said all that….who gives a monkeys, truly? Mein’s a bitter, a large bitter bitte!!
Yours truly,
The former Dr. Theronius Munkhausen, clinical physician of Freiburg Institute of Insanely Murderous Persons and wrongly convicted murderer of seventeen people between the years 1928 and 1948.
(It was my hands your honor...yes, my fakakta hands possessed by the spirit of an executed murderer, that did them awful things...no, not the things I did to my ex-lover but the murders, the murders your honour!)

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‘Red was the colour of my true love’s hair..’ he says to me.

‘Really?’ I says. As if he’s listenin. lost in a drunken erotic reverie, his imagination drowning in several hundred regrets or so. But i couldn’t get away from him even if I wanted; the music had lured me in, I need a refuge for the day that was in it. But this old bastards reminiscences were slowly dragging me back into the primeval muck of my own private tortures.

‘Maria…Maria….my beautiful Maria!’ he moaned, repeating her name is if to summon her from beyond. Jesus! Why doesn’t someone throw the maudlin fucker out? He doesn’t even fit in here for fucks sake! The place is buzzing with youthful arrogance, this old bollocks is ruining the vibe, man. i was ready to break my glass and threaten murder if he didn’t stop crying out her name. But he kept on despite my withering stare.

‘Maria, mi corazon es tuyo, my heart….Maria, mi corazon es tuyo,  my precious girl…’ I hope to share a knowing look with the barman but he is unmoved by this grotesque display of sentimentality and he blanks me, his eyes fixed on the band playing away in the darkness.

‘She was a painter, a poet you know? I made things. I could make things with my hands, l sailed the seven sea by Christ! She used to love touching these hands….’ I have to say something now to stop him, the crusty pervert. He’s drinking now, nursing his glass thank God. Some minor relief. Out of habit, I check my watch and then my phone. No calls, no messages. The drink is starting to kick in and now I have to think of her. What she did. No! I can’t. Embrace some kind of oblivion here. Get fucked up, dance like an idiotic dervish, take some acid, start a fight with this Maria guy if you have to! Feel something. Just not that.

‘Same again, mate?’, the barman asks, his tone sceptical of my constitution for alcohol abuse. Fuckin cheek! I’ll prove him my manliness now so I respond in the affirmative, more strident and defensive than I perhaps intended; I sound like a right arsehole now.

‘Okay mate, take it easy’ he says. My blood is up I tell you. Now who the fuck is touching my arm? Ahhh no! Yer man is back and making full bodily contact.

‘What’s your story?’, he says to me, i think but all warm and tender like. I want to scream, bolt out the door use my head as a batterin ram, bleed out onto the street like a shamed animal, disgusted with the universe, appalled with the limits of the crooked human heart. I turn to face him but I don’t answer.

‘Do you know what it is to love, son? To give yourself, all of yourself to love?’

I can’t answer because I don’t know. Right now, nothing makes sense and I truly doubt that I have ever loved another person, never mind my wretched self.

‘Are you listening to me, son? Have you ever danced with your true love under the moonlight, near the edge of the cliffs, laughter and music all around you, wolves howling in the forests, your bodies entwined, souls floatin, beyond thought, rationality, sex, God….we are the cosmos!’

Then, he stares right past me, saying nothing as if his precious Maria had materialized on my shoulder. His glass drops and shatters on the ground. We are cloaked in darkness, the music fading out his face frozen in fear, shock, awe. I cannot move as I feel a cold hand creep up my back and onto my neck, then a warm breath and I am swept away by her tender voice, the pain gone, back to that familiar terrain of shared dreams, fantasies and pleasures.

But it doesn’t last. It never does. Does it, Maria? Continue reading