The Last Checkout The queue went on for miles. Children did somersaults over the trolleys, or kept asking questions: Are we nearly there yet? Are we nearly there yet? Young couples started to argue with each other. Old couples complained about the service. Fishfingers started to melt, and drip onto the floor. And when you finaly got there, the sign said YOU CAN'T TAKE ANYTHING WITH YOU. You start and finish with an empty trolley. So true. My receipt was seventy years long. Many people ignored the sign. Some, weighed down by shopping bags full of frozen pizza, sank without trace into the brown, oozing lino. Others made it to the door, only to fall to earth as they stepped out onto the clouds. A few people said so what you can keep the lot, and walked on to the stars. Ranter Would they let him in? He'd have to sound convincing. For a start, he'd need a name - you know, the sort that sounds uncrackable, as if he'd lived with it for years. He'd need a reason, too. This proved more difficult. It was not enough to be the life and soul of the poem. They'd see through that, they'd know he'd almost certainly get pissed, then try to set the universe to rights, grasping the sleeves of exasperated punters. That's when things always start to go wrong, he thought. In the end, they'd have to throw him out. "You bastards, I made you." He could hear himself slur, skidding in a pool of his own vomit. "Where would you be without me?" And then: "I think we've had enough, sir." "Bastards..." "Goodnight, sir." Back to the street. He'd have to think of something else. He could make promises: he'd keep his clothes on, only relieve himself in the appropriate place, not puke on the floor, keep his ideas to himself, even, though what's the point? he thought. I'd most likely break them, along with the glasses, and perhaps its not my sort of place after all. Perhaps I just want to get out of the rain. He might just take a bus instead. Invent the route. Watch himself stretched out across an empty seat reflected in the darkness of the glass. He might end up anywhere, might even rediscover dragons The Get-Out The god of excuses could get away with anything. "Look," he said, (his hand in the robe of the headman's daughter), "what goes in Heaven goes on Earth." He was a god of many faces. As War and Fertility he straddled the world indifferently. As Death, he shrugged, driven at last into a corner - "what else could I do?" he said. English One day at school our english teacher handed out the poetry books. He made us read a short, sad story of rejection by one Wole Soyenka. It seemed a strange poem to find in a place like that: one of those grubby, hardback schoolbooks full of poems about animals full of in-your-face similes illustrating the power of the english language. But then it was not a poem, the english teacher said. It was just prose chopped up and not a rhyme in sight. He sucked his teeth, in case a few stray syllables had lodged between them. Give me a nice old wooly sweater any day a haiku I've never slipped on a banana skin. But then I'm no banana. Banana haiku for cait collins A cigar is a cigar, Freud said. If only he'd smoked bananas. Station for Malcolm You had "The Birth of Venus" pinned where you could see, Beyond the bed. A modest nude to contemplate. A feat of balance, standing on that shell, at sea. Poised between the Carnal and the Ultimate, You talked about the art of painting, pointed out How Botticelli's composition-lines relate To a Matisse, the things New Masters learnt about The Old. You took a pencil-stub to demonstrate. What deprivations of the Underworld assailed Your mind, or bright Venusian dreams tormented you? You'd seen so much - you thought you knew what death entailed: "Talk about art? Why not? What else is there to do?" An atheist, you doubted Heaven, doubted Hell. More fitting, to be borne away upon the Shell. Gothic The hand that gripped my face from behind trembled, smelt of fresh earth. The old man again. Suddenly, I awoke to find myself in a bright-lit room, watching a sinister finger intently. This will never do it said. And then, suddenly, I awoke to find myself eating a spider one leg at a time. I was going to save the best, the bulbous middle bit till last, but suddenly, I awoke to find myself standing on a trapdoor. Are the sharks ready? said a man in a rubber suit. He produced a legless spider, on a plate. Suddenly, I awoke to find myself Porthmadog Harbour Lit by the streetlights, glimpsed between the boats like a patterned carpet in a cluttered room, the water-surface looks confused: pulled one way by the wind, the other by the moon. Sheets tap the metal masts like distant cowbells - temple music - darkness - while at the other end, the bar's lit up, the jukebox blares - oblivious - Flood The river overflowed: and the water turned the parapet of the bridge into the prow of a ship, and surged through the wire fence that filtered out the loose stuff: straw, broken branches, fertiliser bags. I had to stop. -So what, I said to myself. Work is over-rated. We are slaves to clocks. I pulled the car off the road, turned on the radio, admired the view: wondered at the sinuous quality of a massive quantity of water, forcing its way through a gap in a wall. The Lone Ranger After three days of muzak, fagsmoke and unanswered telephones (the giro never showed) he stole a packet of gum and a Buffalo Cowboy Set in a sunbleached cardboard box from a fascist in a clothcap who was otherwise engaged complaining loudly about the new asian videostore. He made his way to the Post Office. This is a stickup he said. Don't make me laugh, she said. Go home. So he pulled the trigger again and again, going bang bang bang, bang bang. I'll phone the police, she said. You can't you're dead, he said. She picked up the phone. He turned the gun on himself. Bang he said so this is heaven
(c)Dominic Rivron 2000
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