The Doughnut Man

I once knew man who made doughnuts. Original American recipe. He sold them for the entire time I knew him until he was pushed over a bridge in a supposed robbery. I never tasted his doughnuts.

Oh Sweet Canola

I am running out of everything, even the strawberry jam has gone. i miss the sweet smell of truffle oil and the sight of green Tabasco that instantly brought a smile.  There are not even any lentils left and the potatoes are moldy. It has got to a stage where there is only one thing left to do......

Dismantling

Its amazing how fast I can dismantle my life. Well practised I guess. Wires unravelled, clothes in bags, big stuff in a pile and knick knacks scattered in every which way possible. Its chaos but
with a quiet subdued order to it. Well-rehearsed, emotionally cold and caught well within the moment of homelessness.

I am sat her in my underwear thinking that nothing really matters because I will wake up soon and the rain will have gone, the cold will be hot and the pain will be happiness.
Somebody pinch me I seem to be paralysed.

The End?

I’m almost stoned enough to forget that anything matters but right now. This singular moment in time where the sound of a London that returns home drifts in through window, the smell of a hundred dinners fill the room and fight for airspace with smoke. Nothing, nearly matters.

The thing is that it’s not quite enough to let me forget that the next few moments in time are ones I can’t believe are happening. It is always the way. Whilst one is planning for the future the other is wanting away for their future. Tabloid problem page stuff. Nice to know that your life can be so neatly categorised by the experience of others.

It’s never expected. Sometimes more, sometimes less than the previous but one can never describe is as expected. Expected is a birthday. Its Christmas. Not this whole falling out of love thing. Even those moments have managed to morph themselves into many after. The uncertainty through her no show have caused for more weed and now alcohol – the devils drug. Frantic phonecalls, text messages and even facebook gets a look in but sadly realising. Realising now with the aid of massive attack and near darkness as it all starts to sink in. It is all futile and wasted breath. It is more wasted time that would be spent crying and moving on. Moving on is difficult when all and everything was her including the future I was building around her. It is sadly all over. Not from the devils mouth but in feeling and that is enough.

Scummy

I stood in the hall, small as it was and scattered with shoes, bags and bits of bacon the cat had dragged around, playing as she does. The glow of my cigarette the only light as day became night and finally I could rise but for now standing smoking is as good as it was going to get. Step at a time. Slowly but surely. It was never supposed to be so. I was never meant to end up here amongst the scummy people and their scummy lives of sniff, pints and spliffs. I always wanted to be a nice boy. Not scraping by trying to reach the surface.

Sex On Tuesday

We’d have sex probably every Tuesday.
The routine was what I liked about her. That precise attention to detail and time.
Oh how I loved her. So very much.
She reminded me of my mother with her fastidious nature and icy manner.
Oh how I love her and how I think she loves me.

The Old Women

Battered and haggard well before her time she stumbles around the street with her wonky shopping trolley and rat faced dog.

Shoplifting

I think you forget skills.

If they are not used, or ignored – maybe abused or neglected.

They fall from the conscious mind lying dormant, hibernating until they are sparked again. Needed again. Relied upon again.

When I was a kid, an adolescent really. A tortured teenager on the estate I stole for all reasons but poverty. I stole because I could. Because I wanted to. Because I was bored.

It wasn’t in isolation either. I stole with Mike. My best friend.

We stole shirts, shoes and all the music we could lay our hands on. We loved books and movies, hats and sunglasses. Chocolate and alcohol fuelled a summer bathing on the old school yard rich with our spoils and smug in the last real summer sun I can remember.

A long decade ago.

Stealing was our shopping.

Then we stopped. One or two many close encounters. We were asking a lot from luck, permanent requests and citations, we danced on a very thin patch of land that seemed eternally blessed from harm.

We faked fires, used decoys and hired circus performers to assist in our more and more outrageous and outlandish behaviour and all for a few more spoils.

So we stopped. Before anything bad happened and besides – it stopped being fun.

The Ninja & Other Friends

The demons and the Ninja fighting in my bathroom.

The sound of an approaching ghost train threatens to consume the amusing commentary, banter so to speak, between the Ninja and the Demons.

The sun and the moon jostle for a seat sink-side and the crowd is dotted with stars.

Heaven and Hell are here in , daytrips of course, but with the sun and the moon here already who knows what time of day it is.

The animals of the world form a bandstand, confused by the lack of any-light, they watch, like everybody else the mighty battle. The monkeys talking fervently and sensing this may be their time to attack. Never trust the monkeys. They are far too clever. Clever I tell you.