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.
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