Special needs literature class. (Pete's stuff.)

Posted In: Poetry + Prose. Reading This Thread:

Handbanana

| 22 posts


17th Apr 2011 at 7:15 pm

Handbanana - Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

 
I never said any of this was going to be amazing. I don't claim to be the next Dostoevsky. I'm not the embodiment of Bukowski's spirit. I don't think it's necessarily interesting, either.

But it's my work and I don't see any reason to be ashamed of it. Constructive criticism is welcomed, but don't be a d*ck.

What follows will be the beginnings of various short stories, complete song lyrics, existentialist rambling, the lot. Enjoy. Or don't.
"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."

Handbanana

| 22 posts


17th Apr 2011 at 7:20 pm

Handbanana - Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

 
The BBC World Service (Makes Me Ashamed To Feel Sad)

You know, your mother warned me
She said you were the heartless kind
And it's my own mistake; you don't owe me
But I hope to God it's worth it next time
I tell my face in the mirror every day
That it's fine, that it's over, that I'm okay, I survived
But the cuts get re-opened every time

Cut to black and the stage-set fades
Reading two thousand dead on every front page
It's clocking up bodies like motorway miles
Kinda puts things in perspective for a while

Even so, if you'd just hold me
Pretend you'd kept me in your mind
That it was your mistake and you owe me
That you pray to God it works out next time
Check your eyes in the mirror; they'd be weeping
'Cause it's not fine, it's not over, and I'm okay, a survivor
Of your wrecking ball pantomime

And the word on the TV is double-A artillery
Pumping rounds in the crowds so enthusiastically
And I'm cringing like f*ck at the scenes
At how I'm so wrapped up in selfish me.


Overpass

We smoked cigarettes out on the overpass
Remarking on the light pollution
Taking in the passing cars and
reminding ourselves that
Above these headlights and commuting souls
We were finally insignificant.

This dream had come to me in waking hours
While old sad songs echoed loud in headphones
Those now-spent cigarettes, tumbled sparks onto the road
And maybe just once maybe in this place here
Enlightenment was close and almost tangible
Like we could touch it, it was palpable.

This dirty industrial homeland we try in vain to love
For these long moments in time felt truly beautiful
An aerial window on lives we'll never know
Yes, above these headlights and commuting souls
We were finally insignificant.


"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."

Handbanana

| 22 posts


17th Apr 2011 at 7:22 pm

Handbanana - Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

 
23rd September, 2010.
Diary of a dying man.


These days, this is the closest thing that I get to down-time. It’s long since been a habit of mine to make sure that I’m continuously busy doing almost nothing at all. It has nothing to do with being lazy. The truth is that for an increasing number of years, I’ve been trying to resign. I wish to stay on as a friend or a lover or a casual observer, however, and this has so far kept me from handing in my notice. It would almost seem a selfless act but in truth, I know that I’d be desolate and worthless without those close to me. Those brilliant broken people are my crutch. Although self-destructive, we’ve managed to find ways and means to assist each other in keeping at bay the evil that patrols outside of the door. For the most part it works; the hollow, artless demons of the mire outside are kept at bay. The question has to be asked, though - are we the noble defenders of our castle’s keep or are we petrified children under voluntary house arrest? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. There’s a point where the line between the two smudges and becomes indistinguishable anyway. Either way, fortress or prison cell, this is the only place in which I feel comfortable. That’s not to say that I attach any sentimentality to these four walls; this building is not home. The true sanctuary lies in the company inside: We have become family, bound by uncodified contracts of shared experience, unabashed openness and apparently faulty mental mechanics. Self-awareness connects us all. In earnest, this company will be the death of me but it’s likely that we’re entangled for life. Everybody has to depart eventually and I can think of no better fate than to fall side by side with my brothers in arms in battle against the enemy outside. In accepting my fate, I have become transient.

I am a dying man.
"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."

Handbanana

| 22 posts


17th Apr 2011 at 7:25 pm

Handbanana - Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

 
Fictionalisation. - unfinished.

I hated everything. Everybody thought I was lost or somehow broken but from where I was sitting, I was the only sane man alive. Trust had let me down and I held it directly accountable for my state of mind. I'm going to tell you the story of my empire's decline; the decolonisation of my heart and the great exodus to my head. While what I will tell you is correct, I don't want you to assume that it's the truth. It's just a truth. A one-way mirror.

*

Good things happen in autumn. If I was to list the majority of the few good things I think have happened to me, they would have happened to me in this season. This is nothing more than a romantic idea, but it's one that serves its purpose. This is to say that my story begins during an autumn month when the air has a comforting chill and your exhalation is visible in the night. I find this undeniably beautiful. The story itself begins with a similar romantic fabrication; hope. Even in those more innocent days passed, I'd learned to distrust the idea. To this day, however, the distrust has never put me off. This lingering naïve weakness has rarely served me well.
They say the Devil is in the detail and I can think of no better example than this. She was hair dye in tight jeans with a nervous smile and over-zealous eye contact. This wolverine in lamb's attire bore a face that had launched countless ships and a body that could stop continental traffic. I'd like you to meet Her. She had appeared to me as if from nowhere to offer me deliverance from the dark dream that shadowed my waking life. Deliverance that I was in dire need of; I was far from home and in a bad way for it. I was being haunted. By myself.
The official story is that I had moved away to study in an apparent attempt to become a productive member of society. The empirical truth is that I had shipped myself into cold obscurity and embarked upon a determined attempt to drink my environment dry. Distance had become a fools' asylum in which I had been placed to keep me from my friends. Home sickness quickly fell ill and mutated into loathing and despair. As darkness built its sprawling fortifications around my consciousness, She appeared. An unambiguous shaft of pure white light piercing some forgotten chink in my black armour. I saw the sun rise inside of me for the first time.
It was in a champagne-rich Paris that Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman had sparked the on-screen romance in Casablanca. My saga begins in a damp parking lot, clumsily restoring an unfortunate wing mirror to its rightful place. She was the most beautiful face I'd seen in a lifetime's staring but she drove like someone who was in the wrong place when spacial awareness had been handed out. The most cavalier act of the night had been a tentative kiss that petrified me. I wasn't a patch on Humphrey, but it was enough to make a usually wry smile genuine. In my mind's movie that night, I had won the attention of the female lead and was eagerly awaiting the credits rolling.
Increasingly now, I found myself in Her perfect company. To the approving cries of both my heart and my head, She was quickly becoming a constant in my improving life. The sun in my heart was by now beating down brilliant rays with enthusiasm and consistency. As I frequented low-budget restaurants, sat through hours of dreadful cinema and drained countless bottles of wine with my self-appointed saviour, something approaching content set in. Now apparently cured of melancholy, I allowed smiling to become routine and for a while stopped cursing God. I was taking a welcomed holiday from cynicism.

*

Three months later and Christmas had been and gone. The happiness lingered on. Some time around the New Year, we had found ourselves drinking with the family of a good friend. I might have been cured of my melancholy but I had refused wholeheartedly to let something such as smiling, that had been no friend of mine until recently, get in the way of my familiar companion Alcoholism. In an act that was most likely spurred on by paranoia and encouraged further by drunken and youthful excitement, I dropped a sentence into the air and crowned it with a question mark. Few people can match me at drinking and I'm guessing that She'd tried. She slurred to the affirmative, kissed me unusually tenderly for a drunk and made her way to the bathroom. I had a girlfriend. Who was vomiting. With help from the demon Hindsight, I realise that it should have been me retching my guts up in a cubicle. My friend's mother had checked on her after She'd been gone for half an hour. It wasn't until long after the conclusion of this story that I was told it was Her eyes that were gushing, not Her stomach. I couldn't bring myself to ask what words were exchanged. This omen was unfortunately unknown to me, though, as I grinned in the face of apparent triumph.
It can't have been later than April when the first of many nails was pounded into my Calvary cross. Even now, I have no idea whether my reaction showed extreme emotional strength or a radical case of personal weakness. She'd rushed over; there was something important to say. The gnawing in my stomach felt like a cancer. My guts weren't wrong. This girl with flawless emerald eyes was staring into mine and from the lips I used to kiss came the hammer-blow that sent that nail home. With all the grace of a war-widow receiving a telegram, I stood paralysed and silent. The previous night, hair dye, tight jeans and perfect eyes didn't sleep in their own bed. A man with an ego might have been mortified by the breach of trust or the personal hurt inflicted and issued marching orders to the turncoat in front of him. Your narrator claims to be no such thing. Not being wired right, I rapidly found myself in a state of panic; I didn't want to lose Her. I told Her that and I kissed her and for the first time, I told her that I loved her. She reciprocated in kind. I meant those words with every fibre of my being and given the circumstances, that fact now comes accompanied with pangs of baffled nausea.
To the best of my memory it was around now that the arguments started. These stalemate rounds of verbal pugilism would become a permanent fixture. It was usually my self-destructive lifestyle and my circle of close friends that lit Her fuse. Sometimes, it was anything else too. Either to the credit of my stone-set feelings or to the shame of my fading dignity, I remained immovable. I loved the girl who'd kept Her nervous smile and her captivating stare. I loved her more than ever.
"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."

Handbanana

| 22 posts


17th Apr 2011 at 7:29 pm

Handbanana - Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

 
The Exile

You sit down in one of those rare moments of content and realise that the sun went down some hours ago, your complexion is flawed, and that girl you’ve been messaging isn’t going to come round tonight after all. You smile. You smile because there’s nothing else to do. I couldn’t speculate for a single second that what I do to myself is making an improvement in my situation, but that’s not why I did it anyway. Although there are those among us that feel cracking open a drink or lighting a cigarette is somehow improving their lot, I am not one of them. There is, however, very little reason to quit and run out on these imperfect habits that make me more human - I don’t love it, I don’t loathe it, but I do it. The havoc I unleash on my increasingly fragile body and mind in the name of having fun is just about the only means with which I have to cope with what I feel - nothing. I had once, as many have done before, loved and likewise I have lost. It becomes more apparent with every self-reflective moment though, that I am not in fact in or out of love. I am simply numb. Does it take so much degradation and substance abuse to finally realise that what I’m looking for is not something, but anything. We feel lonely at times because we have cast ourselves out - I have become an exile from my own good company. This is why we have friends. In the sharing of similar situations, we have become purified from guilt and locked away from misery. We have become safe.
"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."

Handbanana

| 22 posts


27th Apr 2011 at 11:17 pm

Handbanana - Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

 
Blackout

Sick to death of these windows
opening and closing all the time,
letting in light all over the place
before they're shut down and bricked up.

Little openings that allow us briefly to see
what it's like on the other side,
what it's like living different lives.

It's like night and day;
sunrise and then it sets.
Brief cycles of enlightened hope,
constantly opening up to be
shot down by logic or loathing
or something as petty as social convention.

I feel sick to my stomach, help me out here.

I'll hold both hands up;
I'm just not capable,
I'm not coping and I'm not fine.

And if we close these curtains
or draw these blinds
or bar up the shutters
we're still running from the light.

We'll end up in the dark
and we'll have no one to blame but ourselves.

Let the light shine through even though it burns us
even though it illuminates that which we'd rather not see.
Yeah, it's illuminating you and me.
"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."

Handbanana

| 22 posts


1st May 2011 at 9:03 pm

Handbanana - Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

Sounds like someone wants to get RAPED again.

 
Suit

Shoes of fine Italian suede,
and your business suit
for which your daddy paid,
your chest puffed out
as if you're on parade.
And I bet he's proud
now there's money being made.

I bet you're proud too
as you sit there,
in the back-seat of a Beamer
with your well-groomed hair
and those ice-cold eyes
and that piercing stare.

But that's it, you see:
Well-dressed though you are now,
know that's all you'll ever be.
You sacrificed integrity
for what you termed "success"
at the altar of the dollar sign
in the temple of career.

I know right now I'm quick to judge,
as if the truth was clear.
I drink and rant so f*cking much
on what the "real world" holds dear.
Strongly felt opinions
I have no right to hold
in splendid, spiteful ignorance
of society as a whole.

So here's to love and here's to freedom,
here's to wine, good friends and drug dealers,
here's to self-destruction on which we're hell-bent,
but above all that, my suited friend...
...here's to paying the God-damn rent.
"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."


 
 
Claire: Of course you will never see this because the shoutbox cuts everything off so the last thing I can see is something 6 posts back. Sighs.
Claire: Or maybe that's jugs an iPad thing. Anyways I'm shoutboxing like its 2005 and so that's nice
Claire: Jugs. Excellent autocorrect
Claire: If I keep posting maybe James will see
Claire: Not my jugs
Claire: Nearly thereeee
Claire: Good, well
Claire: I've really achieved something this evening
((: hello! i see ur messages! my life is cool! how are you? if ur still here
Claire: I'm OK ta, what brings you to these parts? It's been a long time and I often wondered how you were getting on.
((: i'm back because i'm a youth worker now + there are things on here that could do with being swept under the rug, lmao. especially because i used to be a bit more, er. completely useless at not giving out personal information online.
Claire: Well if it helps there is an option now to hide your posts unless someone is signed in
Claire: And I think new sign ups are off
Claire: In your profile there's an option
((: yeah! i've hit that ty <3 I'm just cleaning out stuff a wee bit anyways like, belt and braces.
((: it did mean having to confront my 12 year old poetry but i survived that with the help of a large glass of wine
the doc: F*cking hell, is that Tabby?!
the doc: Always wondered what happened to you
the doc: Hope life's treating you well after all these years. Them were some f*cked up times we lived through.
the doc: Ah man, it was weeks ago. Ah well. If you drop by again, send us a quick PM and let us know how you're doing. I'd love to hear from you. I'm all grown up with kids and everything. Madness.

 

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