My grandma just called me on the telephone for the first time ever. I’m technically an adult now, and I’ve never spoken to her about life. It’s weird to think that somewhere in her wrinkles is my very essence, and her fate inevitably led to mine.

I’m her walking, talking, breathing Karma.

27 minutes and 38 seconds, followed by a stream of endless tears. She hung up, and all I could think was how I didn’t really know who I was, or who I had branched from.

She said that she was waiting to die, and that there was nothing left for her now, and that she missed her mother and Charlie, and her son and she wanted to be with them again.

She told me about her abusive father, and the way his lips sucked down liquor, the way his fists met his mothers face. She told me about his wickedness, and the many times that he’d make her suffer: to get on her knees and kneel of chickpeas for several hours. How if she’d move he’d threaten to kill her. And the many fearful nights she spent awake with her mother, hiding from him, hoping we wouldn’t kill them. Those many nights that she begged her mama to leave him.

She told me that he killed her mama. That her heart was weak, and that she couldn’t struggle with him any longer. Mama died alone, with no one to hold her hand.

And then there was the departure to London, and enslaving yourself to eat. She had worked for a rich Jewish family who kept her prisoner. One day, she wanted to run, and so she did. But they called the police on her saying that she had stolen diamond rings when she only stole pillow cases. People have so many things, and pillow cases are sometimes the only places to put them.

She finally escaped and found herself in Osterly working in a care home with her (only) friend. One night they snuck out of the care home, and decided to go out and have some fun. They weren’t meant to leave in case one of the elderly died. Luckily fate was not cruel, and everything was sound.

They got the train to Trafalgar Square. It was beautiful she said, remembering the fountain and the lights, and all those birds. Yes, the birds, and how they flocked around you panting the ground.

Her friend left her for a while. She sat there alone with all her pain and her beauty, and he found her.

Charlie.

For every day that he knew her he would call her, pestering her with his love. He couldn’t live a minute without her, and so within three months of knowing each other they were married, and she didn’t have to work anymore. She loved him too, she said he was a kind man, a good man. That he needn’t be, he could’ve been like her father and punished her.

No. He was good. And now, he is dead, and she is all alone.

She’s crying to me on the phone. She’s waiting to die.

27 minutes and 38 seconds, I’m crying on the phone.

She’s waiting to die.


truckheart:

sneek peek from  I. Must. Drive. The Truck.  coming out as e-book and in print 2013 (very soon)

truckheart:

sneek peek from  I. Must. Drive. The Truck.  coming out as e-book and in print 2013 (very soon)


featherumbrellas:

fragile is strong
(featherumbrellas - poem series #51)

featherumbrellas:

fragile is strong

(featherumbrellas - poem series #51)


They call the study of humans sociology, but I think it should be called theology. I was just sitting on the balcony, smoking a joint. And the notion of diffusion came to me. I saw someone walking on the street and was fantasising that a whiff off bud blew their way. I really wanted for them to experience that which I was…. So anyways I was thinking of diffusion, and that no matter how much I wanted them to smell my beautiful bud, no matter how much I wanted them to inhale that wonderful scent Science would just not permit it. Once molecules have diffused you cannot detect them with scent for they evenly distribute themselves in the air.

I thought about people, there are so many of us, and we have diffused ourselves all over the globe. What if we were just some chemical reaction that was still happening? Suppose that we are all from once source, and we just moved away from one another over time; existing in our own random segregation. 


The concept of a secret is one that can toyed with. The word “secret” resonates with something that ought to be concealed, something that one keeps from others because they themselves consider it to be of weight. All this time you had misconstreud your own language, and now you are left illiterate and alone. Something secret is no covenant, but rather something that belongs in your skin.

I called it a secret that night we belonged to one another, and hands gripped each other’s bodies. We took one another’s clothes off, and we studied one another’s bodies. You said that I was beautiful, and I smiled. You looked at my contours, and I looked at your soul. Beneath that body was an old man and the moon.


The tongue is the most powerful kind of ammunition. Belligerence belongs in the mouth.

A Curious Shame

I desperately needed a piss today. I entered the bathroom and I contemplated cubicles. I counted one, two, three, and so it was the latter I chose. I walked into it and envisaged myself not closing the door. I thought that it might as well not exist - that being the door. For it was a sham of a door that stood with no real walls. Walls are concrete and therefore they invite the truth of privacy. But no, these doors, they were Lies - they only belonged to hinges and synthetic borders. There is no honesty in such a privacy because I could yet see the curious feet of others, hearing their footsteps echoing silently. I could hear their breathing, and their last drops of urine as they trickled down the bowl, then finally the sound of flushing.

I fancied that these ridiculous doors didn’t exist and that someone would walk in and I could piss in truth. They tell you that the body is a sacred thing, and by that nature something so sacred should not be subject to such shame. 

The word humiliation comes to mind - the weighty burden of humility.


The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being.


Imagine if witches were real and they really did turn people into toads. All of your eloquence would be gone and you would be left only with your cold, coarse skin and a throat that hums “ribbit”,”ribbit”.
It kind of makes you think about what you would have done with your life if you weren’t a person trapped inside a toad. You could make something grand of yourself. You could fall in love, or you could run away. There aren’t many places to run to when you are a toad - especially a toad in suburbia. You have to creep quietly along the tarmac at night hoping that those obnoxious tires don’t make a meal out of you.
Fucking witches.

Imagine if witches were real and they really did turn people into toads. All of your eloquence would be gone and you would be left only with your cold, coarse skin and a throat that hums “ribbit”,”ribbit”.

It kind of makes you think about what you would have done with your life if you weren’t a person trapped inside a toad. You could make something grand of yourself. You could fall in love, or you could run away. There aren’t many places to run to when you are a toad - especially a toad in suburbia. You have to creep quietly along the tarmac at night hoping that those obnoxious tires don’t make a meal out of you.

Fucking witches.


When I was a kid I used to think of the sky as its own entity; its own being.
I’d fancy that the sun was his happiness, and the moon was his melancholy. I’d imagine the thunder was his roar, and the lightning was his wrath.
I remember all those storms that passed by as days of rage. 

I suppose I could sympathise with the sky back then.
He was beautiful and brimming -
sometimes he was filled with lightness and others he was filled with the undying weight of darkness.

He was like me in every way:
so immaculately unpredictable. 

When I was a kid I used to think of the sky as its own entity; its own being.

I’d fancy that the sun was his happiness, and the moon was his melancholy. I’d imagine the thunder was his roar, and the lightning was his wrath.

I remember all those storms that passed by as days of rage. 

I suppose I could sympathise with the sky back then.

He was beautiful and brimming -

sometimes he was filled with lightness and others he was filled with the undying weight of darkness.

He was like me in every way:

so immaculately unpredictable. 



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