Alone in a house a man lay bound in ropes, hidden by the night. Not even the moon shone into the cellar, for the small window was boarded up. The man never saw the sun or the stars. He heard no voices, no laughter.
In the cellar a light bulb hung from the ceiling. I stood over the man, observing him gurgle, watching the blood dribble from his nose and stain his gag. The man's name was Damien.
They think I don't see, but I do. I see everything. I see them snivelling and running. I see them laughing. They are laughing at me, their voices piercing and hideous. I...
'I won't get sick. It's her persecuting me. Her. And you.'
Shush, he's wearing a dark gown. He has a kitchen knife in his hands. He wants to kill you.
He laughed, unable to stop. She believed him. Believed they were going to Spain in two week's time. Believed they were going to live in a villa belonging to his late aunt. Silly. Gullible. The aunt had never existed.
'Don't do that,' Cassie said. 'You're frightening me.'
Why you follow me?“ First question i ask when a new poet adds me to their list Then i ask the same of self find it hard to articulate on the dime I follow because you made me laughed or cried felt a degree of what you felt a tear a giggle on my list of pomes to read for a lift or grovel Too the many comments Of praise building my ego Also the helpful comments helping me to explore and...
Have you the price of a can of lager?' the owner of the flat asked me in the morning. I didn't like parting with my money, what little of it was left, but I had no choice. Give him the money for the beer, or return to the Pound.
It didn't take long for me to discover that almost every person who came to the flat had problems with drink or drugs. And the drinking wasn't just heavy drinking, but breakfast drinking as well. The people would begin the days with swigs from a can of strong lager or a bottle of spirits. I liked to drink too but never in the mornings. Still, I drank...