Miss Brunner talked death on a cold dull December afternoon. As darkness descended outside of the café they were sat in her pebble like eyes seemed to sink within her pale protruding cheek bones. The moon Jerry surmised must be gradually approaching its Winter Solstice position. The failing evening light fell on her faded black retro clothes. She was presently laughing at his forced attempt at conversation ( so he thought ) Yet still he smiled ?
He had once admired her occasional quite optimism, restrained passions, carefully considered comments, self awareness, mature attitude despite her years, her dry humour, elegant out look, lack of ego, detached beauty, musical prowess, varied image, social skills, loyal friendship, discretion, guarded emotions and honest opinions. Times had changed though , but Jerry was quite safe in his assumption that he was more than likely still in love with a " ghost "
Back in the real world his tea was weak, and his scone dry, jam too sweet. He was cold and his mind slid elsewhere as Miss Brunner tilted her head to one side as she delivered another long monologue of entropy. Her lips were full but dry. His hands were cold.
Contemplating the past year he couldn't decide on a single mood to sum up his tumultuous year. Would It all be good in the end ? If only he'd known from the start. Again Winter was early and vicious, galvanising his new found realities, but he also found he was surely waiting for something he didn't know how to deal with, despite having had plenty of time to prepare for it. Yet oddly at the same time he completely failed to realise what this situation was ! His stomach felt knotted, his legs felt weak as festive lights illuminated the cobbled streets. It was nearly dark as he felt slight relief on leaving.
It was true, he was at a low ebb. Many weeks had passed since the " Future House " debacle. Healing at his age took an age... Would he be " retired " from the game by Christmas ? The shadowy young figure in the garden still haunted him. Every teenager took this form to him know. Youth had him surrounded it seemed. Whatever the outcome his shady superiors surely envisaged his days as numbered. He knew he was swimming against the tide. Time to lie low. It wasn't in him to perform at the moment, even if the opportunity arose. Rock bottom. A time of danger.
January evergreens silhouetted against a white Winter sky. A weak damp wind. Nervous expectation. Lost faith ? Still waiting for a point blank shot that may never come. Only time could pull him through. As ever time would be the filter. Soon he would get the feeling for things again. Probably to rapidly. There would need to be counter weights...
Suddenly ( and wasn't it always that way ? ) a golden nugget of information was casually dropped by an close friend. Motions were set in place. Apparently they had started without him in Libya. Time to side step the obvious dilemma and chase the aftermath for a guaranteed success ? He couldn't decide which excited him most; the prospect of foreign travel demanded by his next mercy mission, or the fact that the ever adorable Mitzi was to be his accomplice ( an ever formidable weapon he thought ) Maybe it was just the fact something new had arisen, however torrid. A distraction after all was a distraction!
Somewhere a T.V was blaring out an awful cover version of a Boy George classic. Jerry expected it was the product of a Christmas talent show. He didn't even bother look up...
Sunday, 26 October 2014
Tuesday, 21 October 2014
THE SUM OF ALL PATHS - The Changing Of The Guard ?
On a dark moonless night Jerry Cornelious hovered in the coffin shaped alley. Across the road stood the house of the future, he'd seen its narrow passages and steep stairs, its stain glass windows screamed something he couldn't yet fathom... No need to be quiet. The Equinoctial gale screeched through the stiff Beech tree tops. As he closed his eyes it sounded like the sea. The tree trunks glistened with silver rain illuminated by the orange street lamps.
Besides a rotting garden shed a bonfire of teen novels smouldered. Burnt pages of a Harry Potter novel assaulted him carried on a sudden blast of wind. He wiped the grime from his bewildered face. Rumours of a suicide room in the house did nothing for his nerves. He had no instincts on this job or hit. It was all too here and now for his liking. No romantic angle. No mystical signs. Dead pan. A face-off of every day syndromes...
From behind the dry stone walls of the garden the chuckling was growing louder. Jerry clutched at his blades. Smiling a sharp toothed grin he threw several sonic grenades over the wall into the sodden garden. Silence. Leaping over the garden wall revealed nothing more sinister than garden gnomes and a water feature. His feet were now wet, and his back hurt.
A carpet of used medical syringes and used drug paraphernalia began to splinter and crunch under foot as he nervously approached the front door. The slippery damp ground began to steam, and the door shimmered as he mentally prepared for the inevitable. Anything was possible, and nothing was likely was his mantra that could not fail. He howled as the door way disintegrated revealing five blind cherubs complete with fixed bayonets, charging at him down the shining white plastic hall way. Blind cherubs were notoriously random and could easily defeat a logical man thought Jerry. Think random Jerry, he thought to himself , think random !
The five blind cherubs left Jerry with five new orifices ! He drew his heat gun, but it was too late. The white plastic corridor slowly began to turned red. As he staggered outside freezing fog had descended turning the garden into a traditional Christmas card scene. His snake skin boots struggled for grip as he performed a comical dance of the fatally wounded. Barely reaching his car he felt dizzy. His crimson foot prints betrayed a humiliating with drawl.
A slender hooded figure watched the tragic events from the shadows of an overgrown privet hedge. A future assassin though Jerry ? My replacement he surmised. The young man wore a sleazy smile, a cocky demeanour and was armed to the teeth.
" Old timer " laughed the boy.
" Fuck off " shrieked Jerry....
I wrote this strange piece three years ago. Ive edited it a little, but really its just the way it was written back then. Is this house real ? Well, that would be telling.... Written in the minimalist style of The Lives and Times of Jerry Cornelious by Micheal Moorcock. Its a popular mode of writing. Many others write " Jerry " stories. He is a cult figure ! An Assassin who is all too aware of the big picture. Ive heard it said that all the stories written about him somehow brings him into existence... Who am I to mock ?
Besides a rotting garden shed a bonfire of teen novels smouldered. Burnt pages of a Harry Potter novel assaulted him carried on a sudden blast of wind. He wiped the grime from his bewildered face. Rumours of a suicide room in the house did nothing for his nerves. He had no instincts on this job or hit. It was all too here and now for his liking. No romantic angle. No mystical signs. Dead pan. A face-off of every day syndromes...
From behind the dry stone walls of the garden the chuckling was growing louder. Jerry clutched at his blades. Smiling a sharp toothed grin he threw several sonic grenades over the wall into the sodden garden. Silence. Leaping over the garden wall revealed nothing more sinister than garden gnomes and a water feature. His feet were now wet, and his back hurt.
A carpet of used medical syringes and used drug paraphernalia began to splinter and crunch under foot as he nervously approached the front door. The slippery damp ground began to steam, and the door shimmered as he mentally prepared for the inevitable. Anything was possible, and nothing was likely was his mantra that could not fail. He howled as the door way disintegrated revealing five blind cherubs complete with fixed bayonets, charging at him down the shining white plastic hall way. Blind cherubs were notoriously random and could easily defeat a logical man thought Jerry. Think random Jerry, he thought to himself , think random !
The five blind cherubs left Jerry with five new orifices ! He drew his heat gun, but it was too late. The white plastic corridor slowly began to turned red. As he staggered outside freezing fog had descended turning the garden into a traditional Christmas card scene. His snake skin boots struggled for grip as he performed a comical dance of the fatally wounded. Barely reaching his car he felt dizzy. His crimson foot prints betrayed a humiliating with drawl.
A slender hooded figure watched the tragic events from the shadows of an overgrown privet hedge. A future assassin though Jerry ? My replacement he surmised. The young man wore a sleazy smile, a cocky demeanour and was armed to the teeth.
" Old timer " laughed the boy.
" Fuck off " shrieked Jerry....
I wrote this strange piece three years ago. Ive edited it a little, but really its just the way it was written back then. Is this house real ? Well, that would be telling.... Written in the minimalist style of The Lives and Times of Jerry Cornelious by Micheal Moorcock. Its a popular mode of writing. Many others write " Jerry " stories. He is a cult figure ! An Assassin who is all too aware of the big picture. Ive heard it said that all the stories written about him somehow brings him into existence... Who am I to mock ?
Sunday, 19 October 2014
Morgan
The North wind moans among chords of wire
Slicing the clear air of another dull Sunday afternoon
A reflection ? No, Im reflecting
On the fact that ive once again been left without inspiration
She has heart, has fire, and fire abound,
Yet all that she treasures somehow burns to the ground ?
Sometimes briefly the wisdoms dispensed
All the more angry for that am I
Symphonies don't end in the blink of an eye
A thought, a symphony like hers, and she yet barely has to try
A master piece produced, dead pan, never an irony
No acknowledgement of achievement, no vanity or pride !
The world of the mundane eventually floods in
On line expectations never fulfil, and I can certainly vouch its so
Have I not spent seasons bound to an empty screen ?
I too have had my missions of attentions, in the past, time wasted, but at home
Two creatures are we, corrupted the same
And all those around us would see were the same, if...
Slash and burn of whats worthy was / never will be the answer !
To lie down at this stage ? Is there nothing more to gain ?
I know you know life never does change, eternally thwarted ?
Morgan, keep playing the game...
Not sure where this has come from this afternoon ! / 2014
Slicing the clear air of another dull Sunday afternoon
A reflection ? No, Im reflecting
On the fact that ive once again been left without inspiration
She has heart, has fire, and fire abound,
Yet all that she treasures somehow burns to the ground ?
Sometimes briefly the wisdoms dispensed
All the more angry for that am I
Symphonies don't end in the blink of an eye
A thought, a symphony like hers, and she yet barely has to try
A master piece produced, dead pan, never an irony
No acknowledgement of achievement, no vanity or pride !
The world of the mundane eventually floods in
On line expectations never fulfil, and I can certainly vouch its so
Have I not spent seasons bound to an empty screen ?
I too have had my missions of attentions, in the past, time wasted, but at home
Two creatures are we, corrupted the same
And all those around us would see were the same, if...
Slash and burn of whats worthy was / never will be the answer !
To lie down at this stage ? Is there nothing more to gain ?
I know you know life never does change, eternally thwarted ?
Morgan, keep playing the game...
Not sure where this has come from this afternoon ! / 2014
Thursday, 16 October 2014
Deep Winter
Crooked moon sat in the sky
Watches over silver ash
Water running sparkles by
Silent, fresh, crystal, wild
Pastels stones through clear water slide
Air is sharp with icy bite
Dull bells chime on muted night
Dents river Dee on a Winters afternoon... / 2012
Wednesday, 1 October 2014
New
Jade, green, gold
White blue horizons
Rising tide
Quickening pace
Shining brass
Moving waters
The time is near...
Pounding surge
Ebony shines
Moonlight reflections
Still night air
Silver flickering soul.
Yes, several years ago it felt like this. My personal Peak Experience had started...I remember being intensely aware of how green the Spring fields were, and how heavy the thunder showers were; they were crystal clear, as was my view of the white Spring moon.
Destroyed
A long grainy beach
The colour of her hair
Flattened and soiled
A dilated stare
Thighs crossed
Twisted hips
Her minds elsewhere...
Conversation jolts
As my mind tears
She sold her self before its fair
Her minds the commodity
Her body's the wares.
I wrote this a few years ago after watching someone I cared about trying to self destruct...she pulled it all back together at the edge of disaster in a competent style that defied her years. The mark of excellence ?!
2012
Saturday, 13 September 2014
28
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