Down There.

I’m not much at all, I was just a hardshaw headcase that got lucky in the mix of egos and had some ideas. I’m not worthy, that crap 90’s cliche but I wasn’t. I dodged all the side-swipes of drugs and drink and death and found another drug, I was scared so instead I took the first hit of a woman which felt like Heroin and it was never the same again. Long black eyes and scorn. And thats been an nightmare ever since. One time she came to me as an eyeless Kingfisher with those blurred wings and tried to take mine for her own and somehow I woke up.

I don’t sleep, it feels like sleep but I’m convinced its more like when you’re in hospital knocked out. It also occurred to me that I’m not sure what I’m doing whilst in this place which is akin to sleepwalking, strangely that has the word ‘sleep’ in there, But yet I still don’t think it’s proper sleep, It’s like experience goes on with the consciousness, yet of course the knocked out part is still in place. Maybe like being held under something, a bookshelf that fell on you full of books about places, like those lonely planet guides or more severe, a river thats cold and a rock is holding you below down there at your ankle or leg. Then to add to that theres a bridge nearby with a couple on the bridge taking photos with their phones and they just don’t see you. A stranger to them.

Doesn’t everyone have reoccurring dreams? My other starts with a message from a man I don’t know asking me to bring him to the site of a buried person that I don’t know about but yet how come I know they’re there? Why am I connected to this situation. I wake up and it’s only a dream about a dream and it’s actually nothing. But when I think I’ve woken again I’m at a phonebox which are all but gone now and it rings and it’s the Kingfisher again.


Stalking wasn’t a reality in the fragile nineties but you could do it over the phone, I remember a phone in a shop I worked in and I got fired I think because the list of calls were too strange to be destinations in association with work. Out. If it’s a landline then there was no caller ID and that made stalk-calling easier back in the day. So I slipped into a habit of making these calls that didnt do me any favours in fact they pushed everything away.

Standing at a cinema door waiting for the sadness to turn up anyone that looks like her is a disappointment. And you’re a creep, shifting and growing old at it. Following in your brain and tell tale eyes anyone that resembles the long gone ghost of everything you hoped for.

Following down a side street. Thinking about the end and you never get there, neither of you do.