La Senza

An ungrammatical name

for a lingerie store,

my waiting manikin poses

in the soft-backed seat.

My set eyes, clouded

hollow as a cue ball,

pocket distant daydreams

in a lacy broguish land.

Plastic nipples arrow pupils

with pubescent curlicue

petals; they float softly

over my expressionless face.

Slivers of silk separate buttocks,

strapless bras threaten exposure,

and the fleshy purchasers

press breasts, slap cheeks.

Wooden doors hide pleasures.

Her feet hover in the slip

below, and time trickles

as knickers flicker to floors.

Store hands tape measures

then fizzle, dissolving

as a vacant vessel stare

attends to my time,

my final restless scene

that of shopping bags

bound to boyfriends' feet,

our bums bolted to seats.

Extract from Button Oak

Daniel Boder hadn’t always been known as Daniel Boder. Not in his youth. Danny, they called him, sometimes Danny-boy or Bod, or Bod-boy; silly, strange names that only boys could make up or bullies badger with. His younger brother had called him Dan, even when everyone else seemed to prefer to call him Danny.

            But now, lying in a hospital bed in some anonymous NHS ward, he is old and known by his full name. The paperwork on the clipboard at the foot of the bed says ‘Daniel Joe Boder’. His age is listed as 72.

            He can’t remember the last time someone had called him Danny, or Danny-boy, or even just Daniel. It was always Mr. Boder these days. Wrinkles, baldness, creaking bones just didn’t qualify you for a first name.

            There was talk of a stroke. He thinks. His memory is fading, at least his short term memory. There were definite talks about pneumonia though, he remembered those.

            “Mr. Boden,” started the Doctor. Doctor whathisname. Even if he could remember it, he’d never be able to pronounce it. Much less spell it. “… are you listening, Mr. Boden? You seem, distant…”

            “Sorry, I am listening…” he replied hoarsely, though he was finding it hard to concentrate. How long had he been recovering?

            There was a big clock at the end of the ward showing the date in addition to the time. He suddenly realised tomorrow was the anniversary.

            “Well, Mr. Boden, we think you’ve suffered a…” blah blah blah. Somewhere in the middle of the speech the Doctor whatshisname said something about pneumonia, but his eyes were on that clock, and his mind was in 1955.

Mallendreath, then and now

Frying calves and tops of shoulders,

flailing sand, damming water,

building bolt holes from their brothers,

chasing sisters, splashing faces,

crushing castles into ruin,

eating sand stuck in the butter,

blown like needles in the wind

across the colour of the breaker,

from the waveward openness,

swimming, freezing, Frisbee throwing,

diving salt-ways catching salt

and seaweed in their throats and toes,

dragging fishing line from anglers,

red noses from the searing sea

– and sod the cream –

they're triple-jumping,

basking in the waves of glory

casting minds and reeling dreams

of Olympic wins,

as dad descends with torches of ice

to burn their tongues with cream,

and set alight their holiday.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Walls” perishes

in the grey matter of walls

– ice creams coated

in neglect on the plaque,

and boards barricade

the holiday brigade

from the tuppence machine

of mindless escape.

Up the hill,

a JCB digs a platform

for an extension,

burying the laughter.

Other houses stand sentinel

over the child- and paint-less shell,

like family members

at a bedside.

A grey cloud of dust seems

ready to shroud.

Come on JCB,

have mercy.

Freezes and Heart Squeezes

Climbing into bed in the cold snap,

lungs like the tinsel-covered trees outside,

nature’s winter decoration;

baubles of snow splintering from frozen branches,

the grass beneath a mass of white worms

static-crawling.

Britain from space a titanic iceberg, sinking spirits,

snapped from Europe’s bough.

A pool of ice at the bottom of the bed

turns toes inwards,

foetal, blue thoughts withdraw towards

inner warmth;

memories of holding you,

face nestled in my neck,

breathing the scent of your hair;

hail! ‘heart squeezy’ feelings;

ounce by ounce your lingering heat,

wrung free, thaws me.

Tide of Sleep

moody, the floor skitters

high on caffeine

tabletops shake tonight

dust prints in the dried polish

of future fossils

scrapes of finger writings

- lack of paper, absence of pen –

taurine-induced  doubts

wander the alleys

boss looks over our shoulders

disappears for the night

machines seem to bellow

sometimes whisper

sometimes an hour passes unnoticed

sometimes the hand never moves

it’s 3am

then it’s 2 again

4am suddenly looms

the lull and the tide

of enforced insomnia

pulling and pushing the fulcrum

of rationale

sometimes her face is in the dust,

sometimes there isn’t even a platform

for this lust.

Extract from BC Hackman's Time Travel Exploits

15^th March 2100, 07:32:34

‘The George Hotel,’ room 18.

For a moment, I am utterly alone.

            But only for a moment of de ja vu to pass. It’s like the bathroom - which incidentally has not changed much at all, only the style of the curtains – was completely devoid of any characters, actors or actresses for a fraction of time, and then, it was bustling.

            One moment I’m alone, solitary, in a small bathroom; the next, that bathroom is five times as big and there are people everywhere. And there’s no bath to speak of, no toilet to pee in. Every space in the room is taken by someone. Be calm, I tell myself. Be calm, be calm, be calm.

            This is a major mistake on my part. At least it wasn’t like this back in 1965. I bet I know what’s going on. Yep, I think I do, and it only took my advanced mind two seconds to figure it all out. Obviously, this event was recorded in history upon my first arrival, as this momentous achievement would have been detailed scrupulously by me upon my arrival back home. Somehow, this had become available knowledge and those in the know-how were here today to see if it were true.

            In this case, I might be a kind of celebrity here, with even more status than I have in 2022. Unbelievable, but, somehow, not. It was fate.

            I hold my hands up, saying ‘Hi,’ to everyone in the room. And then I realise something. Most people are all wearing suits, and not only that, but the ones who are not, are wearing Police uniforms.

            Shit.

            Why would the law be here?

            ‘Dr. B.C. Hackman, you are under arrest for twenty-six counts of murder. Please come with us.’ A large man, reminding me a little of Kurt Russell, comes at me, three uniformed officers following behind like stooges.

            Murder? The fools! Do they not know who I am? This is obviously not the advanced, enlightened society I was hoping it would be.

            ‘You don’t understand,’ I begin, before my arms are taken from me roughly, and thrust behind me, as I am charged to the floor to have a knee embedded in the small of my back.

            They don’t understand. Somehow, they have found out about my past, about all the people’s pain and suffering I have eased. But surely they can see how it was only a form of euthanasia at work, nothing evil. Nothing inherently wrong!

            I spot the D.D. lying across the room, from my cheek-squashed viewpoint. And then something that makes my heart stop!

            ‘No! Don’t do that!’ I shout in desperation.

            As the foot comes down I desperately start thinking about all the possible ruminations of the D.D. being destroyed. If it’s destroyed, I won’t be able to travel back to 2022 and document my momentous first arrival in the future. So I wouldn’t be arrested because there’d be no-one here to get me, because they wouldn’t know I’m here.

            This might work out after all.

            A faint smile paints my perfect face as the foot crushes the D.D.

15^th March 2100, 07:32:34

‘The George Hotel,’ room 18.

I am alone again.

Extract from Seagulls in the Gutters, A Novel

There were only a few footsteps in the snow. Decklan started to walk, trying, at first, to match them, but soon giving up.

                The air was cold in his lungs, stinging his nose as it entered. He could already feel his ears reddening. He put his hands in his pockets and walked up the hill towards the new playground. Christmas lights flashed in the windows of the houses lining the street. Christmas trees stood proudly in the bay windows. Looking through each window, he could see colour. And it wasn’t white or grey. Decorations were hanging, and they were orange and yellow and red and green and blue. There were kids wearing Christmas cracker crowns of purple and pink, playing with their new toys. Adults were sitting on sofas, drinking beer and other liquors, but they looked happy, and Decklan suspected it wasn’t just an illusion. Music could even be faintly heard through the double glazed windows of some houses. And they weren’t theme tunes to popular shows and films. Some people weren’t even watching television. Music was a background to their conversation.

                Decklan entered the playground and sat down on a swing. Was all this surface happiness too? Would it be gone after the twelve drummers had drummed? Would the snow, melted and evaporated, uncover their real feelings again, or did they not need snow on Christmas day to feel cheerful?

                He bundled a snowball in his gloved palm and threw it at the slide. He looked around him. If he didn’t know he was in Far Forest, with trees and fields the other side of the houses, he could be mistaken for thinking he was on an estate in the middle of town. He used to play golf with Graham right here. Now he would hit a window with a golf ball. Or worse, a kid. Actually, maybe not worse. He smiled. Then it disappeared as he remembered the other reason why he wished he hadn’t come back.

                He’d seen Kelly in town two days ago. He went to Kidderminster train station to catch a train to Worcester to do some shopping, but the lines were down and he had to turn around and go back to the bus station, from where he'd just come. He decided, on the way back, to stop in the newsagents and buy a drink. This small act meant he missed the next bus to Worcester. The next one was in thirty minutes. So he sat there, disgruntled and shivering, when she appeared from the Tesco car park with her mother. The last time he’d seen her had been a glimpse between a pub doorway. She’d been behind the bar, pouring drinks. Earning money to fund University. And the last time he spoke to her? He couldn’t remember. Probably an ill-advised, ill-judged text message before he deleted her number from his phone memory. Try deleting it from your own memory, he thought. Luckily, she changed it, the cause of much midnight heartache.

                He’d thought about her quite a bit while at University. Less in the last year or so. But always at night when trying to sleep, making up self-success stories in his head, deleting the yearning feeling from his heart at the thought of never, ever, seeing her again. What if she never returns home? What if she stays in Cambridge? It’s not that he wanted to see her again, but having the option removed completely? It made his throat want to swallow, but his chest was too tight.

                And then, completely randomly, not even in the town she lived in, she was there.

                First a set of circumstances; the leaves on the rail, the distance of his parents, his thirst; then to find him waiting for a bus he’d never caught before. Here, after the separation of High School had made all unrecognisable, those eyes and lips and curves that had been imprinted by regret. Second, his reaction; the clenching of his jaw, the tunnel-view of her, his rising lungs and heart where breath was suddenly a useless tool for life. And all too quickly gone as she passed on by. Unremembered or unnoticed? Had time changed his face that much? The answer was no, where truth lay hard, still heaving, upon that bus-station seat.

                The parting of High School had made all, once friends, strangers in the street. But worse then that was this: her ignorance and his still caring. 'Kelly, I can’t believe you blanked me.' In truth, he found it hard to believe he could have pushed someone far enough to hate him. Perhaps it wasn’t hate she felt. Or hopefully not. But whatever it was, it was certainly negative. Guess time can't atone for my childhood and the mistakes I’ve made, he thinks. The thing all dumpees need to remember so they don’t make fools of themselves, is you can never get them back – no amount of pleading, changing or threatening will undo their decision. You only cause personal embarrassment. You just have to file it under the growing list of regrets and hope you’ve forgotten it when it comes to die, or if not, that you die too quick to feel that particular emotional pain.

                Decklan realised he didn’t want to see Kelly again in order to be more than friends. Too much had happened and too much time had passed, however he knew what he did want. Just to show that he had changed. Had grown up. He didn’t make the kind of silly mistakes he had made as an inexperienced, desperately in love, kid. Desperation had driven him to the edge of stupidity, he knew this, he knew it then. She knew it then too, probably, and still does, thus rendering his need to show her he’s changed redundant. But he needs to nonetheless. In some way. Not for her, though he would like to say sorry. But for him, so he, what? He can die happy? Happier?

                The sun burst through the cloud coverage sending down a ray that landed somewhere in the distant trees. He couldn’t see where exactly, rooftops were in the way.