Poet Introduction I compare poetry to painting, believing that I lack any drawing/painting skills but believing my imagination and training in writing has enabled me to transfer my love of visual art to the written word
night icy rain the choppy surface of the sea the smell of salt in the air a guy like myself dressed in an anorak like mine standing by the railings with a mobile phone talking
I have hazy recollections of waking up from a nightmare with a shout and heading down to the promenade in the early hours of the morning, shivering from the cold and smoking a cigarette by the railings as I watch the sea in the distance, a huge mass that breathes in the dark
Talk about internet trolls. Today is the fifth anniversary of the fire and I get this totally sick email.
Thinking Of You, the subject reads.
A bit odd, but I open the email anyway, despite not recognising the name of the Sender. I gape. Is this someone's idea of a joke? Or am I dreaming? No way would a normal person write a message like this:
I passed you on the street the other day but you didn't recognise me. Your name is Gavin Montgomery and you're twenty-three-old. Your parents live in Doncaster and they have one other son who's a couple of years...
Cassie, obviously, had been brought up in the cult. She must have sat in the same punishment room, desperate for freedom. She must have witnessed the chanting, the fights, the humiliating rituals - the trust exercises, as Uncle had referred to them. She must have explored the same nearby countryside, the wooded hills, the wild stretches of heath land that had gone on for miles. She must have run along on the same beach, dipping her toes into the warm sea, searching for fossils.
Perhaps the leader had terrorised Cassie too. An experience shared. An experience no one would...
I slip away, into fog and greyness, into a sphere of nothingness where there is neither time nor sensation. Next thing, I'm sitting on a damp basement floor with a glowing torchlight close by, feeling sick from all the booze, and everything's spinning round and round.
It's night time, and I'm shivering and I have no idea of where I am or how I got here. The men have all crashed out. I don't remember leaving the promenade with Angus, Bill and Terence, or anything about the walk to this damp basement room. I don't know what the hell's going on, and that's scary. I don't even know...
Despite struggling with a marked needle phobia, I went for the Booster Jab yesterday, primarily due to a history of pneumonia and asthma. I took a mild sedative prescribed by the GP. A friend accompanied me to the vaccination centre and we went for lunch afterwards.
I felt a bit unwell today and dozed throughout the afternoon and evening, having some pretty crazy dreams. Plus, my arm is sore.
I felt and feel a strong sense of gratitude towards the staff at the centre. While I was there, someone got angry over the mandatory instruction to remain on the premises for 15...
It happened again this afternoon. I’d made a late lunch. I’d just finished a language lesson. I was trying to send an email but the wireless connection failed. Even more telling, I could hear a neighbour’s alarm, like before when a local power cut had occurred.
The same panic struck me. The fear of starving and of getting abandoned in the dark and the late autumn chill. Visions of hunger.
I hurried out, hoping to get a warm sandwich, but the electricity in the local bakery had failed – so I ordered vegan chocolate cake and coffee but then...
A few weeks later, I arrived at the pier, having spent hours jumping on and off buses, tubes and trains. My shoulders and neck were stiff and sore from lugging two heavy bags around, and I wasn't in the best of the moods. Take the town, for instance. Strong smell. Humid, sticky weather. Grey: sand, skies, metal monstrosity holding up the pier. Seagulls.
But it wasn't just the surroundings. As soon as I stepped off the bus, I got a sense that I'd visited the town before, even though I knew I hadn't. Everything seemed familiar. Each turning I took. The buildings. The layout of the...
Drifting away into a mishmash of dreams: meadows and orchards abandoned farmhouses chickens feeding on sawdust and maize by wired fencing an August heatwave petrol cans and parched grass an old wooden barn in the centre of a field.
Then he is fifteen again standing on top of the mound by the railway line during another heatwave watching as one of the local boys stumbles, falling to the bottom of the slope into the path of an speeding train.
He called Cassie from the van, but she was refusing to answer his calls. He followed the late afternoon traffic up the Edgware Road and considered what to do about Cassie and her constant mischief making.
He came to a set of red lights by a chemist's. The lights were warning him about Cassie, saying she was dangerous, that she was one of the people who had sent him to the House where he had first met the Bone Man. The Rag and Bone man, dirty and unshaven, climbing up the rickety staircase to play Hide and Seek.
Can't stand the dark and the damp and the dust. Claustrophobia; the imagination offering countless possibilities. The ceiling caving in, burying me. If the floor gave way as well, I would fall into blackness, panting and suffocating, knowing that I'd never escape. Certain death.
Buried alive. Like in the famous Rachmaninoff Prelude. Pounding chords as the man attempts to fight his way out of a grave.