Showing posts with label Dave Migman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dave Migman. Show all posts
On The Third Day
By Dave Migman
The ouzo made him crazy. He was a foreigner. If he’d have been Greek he would have drank it with water, like the French do with pastis. But he wasn’t to know. He bought the bottle because the picture on the label displayed a picture of a girl’s abdomen. She wore a short skirt and had long legs and it amused him.
Back in the tent he began writing a letter. Dear friend, it began, I miss you all ever so much but I undertook this journey because I had to escape. He supped and continued. By the second glass they were all arseholes and bastards anyway.
He had memories of that night (ribald fractured memories). He stood outside a kennel barking at dogs. He fired his catapult at a stinking cat. He rolled naked in the moonlit sand. Bang. Bang. Bang.
He awoke. The tent, heated by the mid morning sun, was stifling and reeked of sweat and aniseed. He opened his eyes. His clothes were bundled beneath his face, a pillow of sorts. The vomit was sticky on his cheek, in his socks and t-shirts, were potatoes and mustard sauce – he gagged again and grappled with the zip. He vomited again in the fresh air. He drank copious amounts of water… he felt drunk again. He groaned.
- - -
Mr. Migman is an illiterate despot. Part saint, part muck, part string, part sticky fluff. His words and art have found their way into various online receptacles and such like.
By Dave Migman
The ouzo made him crazy. He was a foreigner. If he’d have been Greek he would have drank it with water, like the French do with pastis. But he wasn’t to know. He bought the bottle because the picture on the label displayed a picture of a girl’s abdomen. She wore a short skirt and had long legs and it amused him.
Back in the tent he began writing a letter. Dear friend, it began, I miss you all ever so much but I undertook this journey because I had to escape. He supped and continued. By the second glass they were all arseholes and bastards anyway.
He had memories of that night (ribald fractured memories). He stood outside a kennel barking at dogs. He fired his catapult at a stinking cat. He rolled naked in the moonlit sand. Bang. Bang. Bang.
He awoke. The tent, heated by the mid morning sun, was stifling and reeked of sweat and aniseed. He opened his eyes. His clothes were bundled beneath his face, a pillow of sorts. The vomit was sticky on his cheek, in his socks and t-shirts, were potatoes and mustard sauce – he gagged again and grappled with the zip. He vomited again in the fresh air. He drank copious amounts of water… he felt drunk again. He groaned.
- - -
Mr. Migman is an illiterate despot. Part saint, part muck, part string, part sticky fluff. His words and art have found their way into various online receptacles and such like.
Gut Lubber
By Dave Migman
Pack dogs barking, sounding out their prey without the sonic finesse of bats. I’m hoping that they’ll snatch one of these cats (I don’t think it out too loud).
She huddles in bed, melding with the sheets. “I can hear you eating in there! What the hell are you eating?” and she extends an eyestalk, creeping from the bedroom, staring over the TV. A mouth stalk appears above the glaring bead. “I knew it. Why are you eating again? You’re getting fat man! Look at that gut!”
I look down at my curdled entrails packed in pink rubber. Better not think too loud about the stinking cats… They are vermin. When she gets together with her cronies they sit there painting rows of gleaming nails like wide teeth pressed into plasticine.
Cats are the subjects of endless conversations.
Cats are surrogate children for sterile anemone queens.
Cats are evil, little, dirty things.
I set traps for them. Poison in their food, exposed wires tucked into their plates of steak. There are plenty of felines among the ruins. There are outside vermin and inside vermin. She keeps five of the latter, here. They laze around her. She is their gelatinous mound. Occasionally they come to harass me for affection. I blow quietly into their faces. They shy away. Their green eyes filled with loathing.
“I hope you’re not bullying my babies!” she hollers.
What is it that scares me? Why do I shiver inside when I hear her voice? The way she commands and dominates… The latent threat concealed within each syllable? I fear her. As though, at any moment, she might reveal her true form, flesh falling away to unmask a ball of snapping teeth like rabid dogs.
“Where’s my little licker?” she calls now, softly like the morning breeze. “Where’s licker?” now she’s getting mad. I hop to. I was dozing. Don’t be mad. I prostrate myself at the foot of the bed. She places one rubbery hand on the back of my bald head, suction cups adhere with a quiet squelch. She then bends my head forward so that I might worship that rotten shrine. When I begin to struggle she lets me up for air.
“Faster, harder. Oh baby. Oh my sweet baby.” Through gritted teeth “Harder, faster.”
The cats stare upon the scene, impassive and uncomprehending. Or maybe they know! Maybe we are their pawns and this is their game.
Afterwards she lies on her back, eyestalks tucked in, tendrils withdrawn. Slimed in an oil of sweat she lies naked. She begins to snore. The chandeliers jingle. I stop my ears and roll onto my side.
- - -
Bio - After many days in a semi-gaseous state Dave Migman is beginning to solidify. He continues to write nonetheless, communicating his thoughts on windows with condensation.
By Dave Migman
Pack dogs barking, sounding out their prey without the sonic finesse of bats. I’m hoping that they’ll snatch one of these cats (I don’t think it out too loud).
She huddles in bed, melding with the sheets. “I can hear you eating in there! What the hell are you eating?” and she extends an eyestalk, creeping from the bedroom, staring over the TV. A mouth stalk appears above the glaring bead. “I knew it. Why are you eating again? You’re getting fat man! Look at that gut!”
I look down at my curdled entrails packed in pink rubber. Better not think too loud about the stinking cats… They are vermin. When she gets together with her cronies they sit there painting rows of gleaming nails like wide teeth pressed into plasticine.
Cats are the subjects of endless conversations.
Cats are surrogate children for sterile anemone queens.
Cats are evil, little, dirty things.
I set traps for them. Poison in their food, exposed wires tucked into their plates of steak. There are plenty of felines among the ruins. There are outside vermin and inside vermin. She keeps five of the latter, here. They laze around her. She is their gelatinous mound. Occasionally they come to harass me for affection. I blow quietly into their faces. They shy away. Their green eyes filled with loathing.
“I hope you’re not bullying my babies!” she hollers.
What is it that scares me? Why do I shiver inside when I hear her voice? The way she commands and dominates… The latent threat concealed within each syllable? I fear her. As though, at any moment, she might reveal her true form, flesh falling away to unmask a ball of snapping teeth like rabid dogs.
“Where’s my little licker?” she calls now, softly like the morning breeze. “Where’s licker?” now she’s getting mad. I hop to. I was dozing. Don’t be mad. I prostrate myself at the foot of the bed. She places one rubbery hand on the back of my bald head, suction cups adhere with a quiet squelch. She then bends my head forward so that I might worship that rotten shrine. When I begin to struggle she lets me up for air.
“Faster, harder. Oh baby. Oh my sweet baby.” Through gritted teeth “Harder, faster.”
The cats stare upon the scene, impassive and uncomprehending. Or maybe they know! Maybe we are their pawns and this is their game.
Afterwards she lies on her back, eyestalks tucked in, tendrils withdrawn. Slimed in an oil of sweat she lies naked. She begins to snore. The chandeliers jingle. I stop my ears and roll onto my side.
- - -
Bio - After many days in a semi-gaseous state Dave Migman is beginning to solidify. He continues to write nonetheless, communicating his thoughts on windows with condensation.
Nocturnal Pinky
By Dave Migman
Huge woman on the bus, diagonally across, squinty evil eyes regarding me. “I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU.” She screams at Vince. Did he see? Can he really be so oblivious? She’s infatuated with him. She wants to suffocate him with her affection; his beany little head thrust deeply into the huge cavernous cleft of her bosom, his little cheeks red raw against her warty flesh.
Vince turns. His tired eyes ringed by red sores.
“PINK BITS”
I laugh too much but I’ve held it in all the way down Ballyhooley Hill. School kids turn to suss us out, and their eyes are frozen at the sight of El, the ebony prince. Their eyes soften, smiles dart across their faces.
Bus stop on the quays and we’re out of there of into the chill the rising mist rolling off the river, the frost bites my shaven head, makes me feel real.
We are nocturnal creatures, I can’t say I know what day it is. I eat three breakfasts per day, time becomes fuzzy at the edges and as I walk wearily back home I can still hear the forklifts reversing and the tearing of the tape machine as it thumps down the lids of three hundred boxes.
This is the life we have chosen to lead. Pay slips and bank accounts, poke a plastic tag into the slot and draw a little blood out of the hole. 8Am time for a drink, off to the pub. The Slackers stand, united by their bondage to alcohol. Under artificial lights we herald in the dawn - prelude to our night.
Vince laughing sickly into his goblet, sucking up some caffeine infected mess. Off to the toilet to powder his nose with Bruce the Loose. And a woman, a goddess staring across at me. Staring across with midnight eyes and I can feel it, the cold sweat, the yearning.
“Go over.” says Vince, “Go speak to her.”
“Tell her you want to lick her hole.” hawks the Loose.
I slide over there, next to her, casually ordering another drink.
“What’s the story? How about it?” Deranged words come out. Not my words, someone else’s. She ignores me, shifting her languid gaze back to the television that is directly above where I was last standing. I slide from the bar, burning, snort something to the boys, “Lesbian!” they chuckle into their brews of booze.
Blinding sunlight, mid day, old women in fur coats, the crush of the high street, we stagger through glances of disgust and frowning descent from normal people who drink at decent hours.
The cycle is endless. Half daily measures of tedium, stacking, pushing, cranking, ten boxes to a pallet, the tape machine... that fucking tape machine. I hear it as I blunder into my dreams.
- - -
Dave Migman is at war with the angels and the elves. But really he's just a big fairy... or so it was told...
By Dave Migman
Huge woman on the bus, diagonally across, squinty evil eyes regarding me. “I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU.” She screams at Vince. Did he see? Can he really be so oblivious? She’s infatuated with him. She wants to suffocate him with her affection; his beany little head thrust deeply into the huge cavernous cleft of her bosom, his little cheeks red raw against her warty flesh.
Vince turns. His tired eyes ringed by red sores.
“PINK BITS”
I laugh too much but I’ve held it in all the way down Ballyhooley Hill. School kids turn to suss us out, and their eyes are frozen at the sight of El, the ebony prince. Their eyes soften, smiles dart across their faces.
Bus stop on the quays and we’re out of there of into the chill the rising mist rolling off the river, the frost bites my shaven head, makes me feel real.
We are nocturnal creatures, I can’t say I know what day it is. I eat three breakfasts per day, time becomes fuzzy at the edges and as I walk wearily back home I can still hear the forklifts reversing and the tearing of the tape machine as it thumps down the lids of three hundred boxes.
This is the life we have chosen to lead. Pay slips and bank accounts, poke a plastic tag into the slot and draw a little blood out of the hole. 8Am time for a drink, off to the pub. The Slackers stand, united by their bondage to alcohol. Under artificial lights we herald in the dawn - prelude to our night.
Vince laughing sickly into his goblet, sucking up some caffeine infected mess. Off to the toilet to powder his nose with Bruce the Loose. And a woman, a goddess staring across at me. Staring across with midnight eyes and I can feel it, the cold sweat, the yearning.
“Go over.” says Vince, “Go speak to her.”
“Tell her you want to lick her hole.” hawks the Loose.
I slide over there, next to her, casually ordering another drink.
“What’s the story? How about it?” Deranged words come out. Not my words, someone else’s. She ignores me, shifting her languid gaze back to the television that is directly above where I was last standing. I slide from the bar, burning, snort something to the boys, “Lesbian!” they chuckle into their brews of booze.
Blinding sunlight, mid day, old women in fur coats, the crush of the high street, we stagger through glances of disgust and frowning descent from normal people who drink at decent hours.
The cycle is endless. Half daily measures of tedium, stacking, pushing, cranking, ten boxes to a pallet, the tape machine... that fucking tape machine. I hear it as I blunder into my dreams.
- - -
Dave Migman is at war with the angels and the elves. But really he's just a big fairy... or so it was told...
NO ONE (AND THE IT)
By Dave Migman
He is no one. Looked within the purulent shell the mouldy tomb sick of it all and hating it all and being it all with a screwed up face and a bloated alcoholic head you're breathing at the walls once more, fucking them, them, them, yes you! I hear you! I hear you! Life an endless shadow, life a waiting game from drinking station to stop off point you’re sinking through the floorboards at every single sound.
He is no one. No one. So many no ones:
He waits by the window wipes a little dust from the surface and peeps onto the world below. The street is filled with faces he longs to reach but can’t. Longs to laugh like they do, longs to talk and find kindred souls. But can’t. Doesn’t seem to find the right words, they stick in his throat like dry stones. How to get close. How to get close?
He rubs the dust between finger and thumb, mixed with the tears.
She is hypnotised by the reflection that regards her against a backdrop of sodium pearls glibly shining. Her ghost flaunts itself against the city backdrop with cavernous eyes and to her true self it seems this phantom is perfection. Blessed with wisdom she dare not fathom, but dreams of every night, staring at the reflection of the viper.
Wipes the sheen of sweat from forehead with ripped up t-shirt and facing mirror begins to heave and strain, the blood filling expanding arteries, the blood pounding in his head and in his minds eye he sees the great cogs shift and begin to pulse, he hears the great pistons hiss into life coats his flesh with stainless gleaming chrome and with the weight of world fixed across his back, he rises.
Old man Ferris sways by the door, the bottle empty he grips the handle but remains locked, frozen by a sudden terror. An accumulation of all the fear he coveted then chased away each drunken night now returns to swallow his crooked frame whole. Eyes widen revealing the horror of his days, the misery of company lost amongst the damned in his food stained jacket, the piss stained pants, the sweat ridden shirt, faded blue like the skies of youth.
Eyes staring beyond the door, beyond the outside, hand clasped heart, he topples to his knees and flaps around the floor like a fish on dry land.
It feels like two different persons, one, the real one is alone, here now in the confines of the cell, separated from its fellows beings by inches of plasterboard and cheap wood. This is the real It the one whose thoughts are clear and pure and everything it wants to be. Godlike.
The second It walks foolish amongst the people, speaks words it really does not mean to utter from unobstructed throat and coughs up promises and platitudes it never really believes nor ever carry out. Smiles when it wants to snarl, opens its jaws when it wishes silence - the words tumble out wrong, all wrong, upside down and inside out. Fake It, false It.
Prefers the cell, the naked bulb in ocean wide mindscape vista prowls like thunderous cloud.
- - -
Dave Migman is an illiterate pedant. A peasant with a halo of flies. His first book, The Wolf Stepped Out, will be available from Doghorn Publishing shortly.
By Dave Migman
He is no one. Looked within the purulent shell the mouldy tomb sick of it all and hating it all and being it all with a screwed up face and a bloated alcoholic head you're breathing at the walls once more, fucking them, them, them, yes you! I hear you! I hear you! Life an endless shadow, life a waiting game from drinking station to stop off point you’re sinking through the floorboards at every single sound.
He is no one. No one. So many no ones:
He waits by the window wipes a little dust from the surface and peeps onto the world below. The street is filled with faces he longs to reach but can’t. Longs to laugh like they do, longs to talk and find kindred souls. But can’t. Doesn’t seem to find the right words, they stick in his throat like dry stones. How to get close. How to get close?
He rubs the dust between finger and thumb, mixed with the tears.
She is hypnotised by the reflection that regards her against a backdrop of sodium pearls glibly shining. Her ghost flaunts itself against the city backdrop with cavernous eyes and to her true self it seems this phantom is perfection. Blessed with wisdom she dare not fathom, but dreams of every night, staring at the reflection of the viper.
Wipes the sheen of sweat from forehead with ripped up t-shirt and facing mirror begins to heave and strain, the blood filling expanding arteries, the blood pounding in his head and in his minds eye he sees the great cogs shift and begin to pulse, he hears the great pistons hiss into life coats his flesh with stainless gleaming chrome and with the weight of world fixed across his back, he rises.
Old man Ferris sways by the door, the bottle empty he grips the handle but remains locked, frozen by a sudden terror. An accumulation of all the fear he coveted then chased away each drunken night now returns to swallow his crooked frame whole. Eyes widen revealing the horror of his days, the misery of company lost amongst the damned in his food stained jacket, the piss stained pants, the sweat ridden shirt, faded blue like the skies of youth.
Eyes staring beyond the door, beyond the outside, hand clasped heart, he topples to his knees and flaps around the floor like a fish on dry land.
It feels like two different persons, one, the real one is alone, here now in the confines of the cell, separated from its fellows beings by inches of plasterboard and cheap wood. This is the real It the one whose thoughts are clear and pure and everything it wants to be. Godlike.
The second It walks foolish amongst the people, speaks words it really does not mean to utter from unobstructed throat and coughs up promises and platitudes it never really believes nor ever carry out. Smiles when it wants to snarl, opens its jaws when it wishes silence - the words tumble out wrong, all wrong, upside down and inside out. Fake It, false It.
Prefers the cell, the naked bulb in ocean wide mindscape vista prowls like thunderous cloud.
- - -
Dave Migman is an illiterate pedant. A peasant with a halo of flies. His first book, The Wolf Stepped Out, will be available from Doghorn Publishing shortly.
