Month: December 2014

Spoken Word. Zachary D’mitri performing The Newest Widow at Troubador Studios in Falmouth, Cornwall.

The video misses the first fourteen lines. Check the words out below.

Words:

She stains the water with the finest reflections.
A river beds silt sheets crave silk.
She pries the fingers of a flowers fist.
The flower beds fine throws and threads
begin to cry and covet.
She caught her husband’s eye,
and she didn’t give it back.
Now he rests in his coffin with one left,
and the other’s made of glass.
It was always like that.
In the street, mid flight,
she’d catch the eyes of eagles and owls,
and between their cleaved beaks
the eyes of rats.
And she proceeds.
Siphons eyes from their pockets,
like a pick pocket pulls
pennies from their sockets,
and she puts them in a locket,
and she locks it.
Then when she hits home
she puts it in a little cracked clay bowl,
with some keys no one needs,
open safety pins,
pocket lint,
and twisted receipts.
She smashes painted faces like Ming vases
against every portrait she has of him,
whilst his stalking eyes make her feel like
It’s him that’s still alive
and it’s her that’s being viewed in a painting.
She wears his last name like a crucifix
but no longer talks to God.
She only prays to him.
With ribs like folded wings,
and she never brings her hands together,
she only makes a pair of fists.
lamenting things like:
“Like angels and dead insects
trapped inside a spider’s web,
you shared my bed, and we were wed,
but I could not keep hold of you,
not even with eight legs.
And up my set of spiral steps
I can still see your shadow grow as the sun sets.
And any day I’d ignore the sinking sun
to stair at your silhouette.
And any night I’d discard these smug stars
to stare into your heavy, half-mast,
crescent moon eyes,
and hope that, though i couldn’t save your life,
I at least made you feel alive.
Each time we were close enough
to choke each other,
but would only kiss one another’s throats,
and whisper
sweet somethings in our ears,
like nothing’s to fear
my dear, because if you spend your time
Then I’ll save mine,
sit on it and watch it multiply,
share it with you and we’ll never ever die.
When all the greatest lines
sung ten too many times
We’ll take our better traits
in crates, packed on the rail road line.
Take all we love with us.
Leave all we hate behind.
We’ll not fill one of our own
foot steps twice”.

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Killer

The Preacher had been hiding out in a shed. It had taken us four months to track him. He was stinking and bearded. There was a bucket in the corner filled with things he’d expelled, and flies glitched over to the bucket, from him and back again. I’d smelled worse. People often evoke the smell of charred flesh, in writing especially, but the charred flesh is alright. It smells like breakfast. It’s the smell of the raw meat that sticks with you. I took out my gun. Freddie took out his. Shuddering, he spoke,

“You lads have lost your way. To kill a messenger of Jesus Christ, do you not fear for your souls? Leave me my life, accept God in to yours, and you will be forgiven. You will, you will, truly you will”.

“Well that depends old fella”.

“On what now?”

“Whether we need to do something here today that would need forgiving. Do you have what we’ve come for?”

“No, I’m sorry. I can have it by next month, I’m sorry. I swear on Jesus our lord and savior, on my ma’s grave, I swear it”.

I lifted my gun. Freddie lifted his.

“That’s not good enough I’m afraid”.

He spluttered rather than breathed. The contours of his throat deepened like the revolving chambers of a six shooter.

“No, no! Wait, God Almighty. Have you no respect for the sanctity of life?”

My stomach cramped up.

“Aye the first person I killed, I cried all night. Then my friend stepped on a land mine, and as I dodged falling toes and splinters of shin, I did scream. Again I cried all night. I thought about dying myself. Surely there was no way I’d get home. I saw this every day. Sometimes I knew them, sometimes I knew of them, and most of the time they were just anonymous blood balloons, leaking all over and bursting. No, life isn’t sacred, but death might be…

Freddie shot two into his chest. The Preacher leaked nicely on the floor.

“Freddie, I was talking to the man”.

“Sorry, it just seemed like a good place in what you were saying to do it like. He’s still breathing. Say what you’ve got to say, quickly mind”.

“Freddie he’s bled half to death, he’s not going to be lending me his ear at this point”.

The Preacher gargled, mumbling where he was able. Freddie shot him just above the right eye. It hung loose, rolling gently on his cheek. Little bits of brain fell out his head, and bounced on the floor. They looked like popcorn if popcorn was meat. Reminded me how hungry I was. I didn’t have breakfast on account of having to come early morning to find this old fella.

“Can we leave? I’m starving over here, no reason we got to die along with this one”.

He had great blood. Slightly deeper red than most you see. It looked thicker. He mustn’t have had a drop of alcohol for decades. Maybe he ate too much salt. Perhaps it was just the floor.

“Isn’t that good blood”?

Freddie looked down at the dead thing, then turned to me with diving eye brows,

“What are you talking about, psycho”.

“The colour, it’s nice isn’t it, so rich. That’s the shade I want in my hallway. And don’t be off calling me a lunatic now, I’ve just seen you shoot that man in his guts twice, then in the head. There needed be only one, sadist”.

Last words are always interesting. They’re more interesting than first words. My first word was no. Funny how my first words answer his last words. It’s all backwards it is. The sanctity of life he says. See I went for a walk along the pier one afternoon a few months after I got home. It must have been around four pm. I was entirely alone, it was high tide, and the moon was strung fat and low, but there was still a nice light. The sky was fading gently from white on the horizon to a ghostly blue, getting deeper the higher you looked, and the water looked like molten opals. Opals that lapped, and lulled, and shivered on forever beyond sight. Now, sometimes some things make you forget that you’re on planet earth. Make your favourite Monet look like a cave drawing. They make you forget about sex, or that you have a dick at all. They make you forget you’re even alive, they make you forget about death, and as I sat that day on that bench I realised I’ve never dreamed anything so perfectly gorgeous. That was sacred. Not him, not his popcorn brains, not me, not my family, or his, not the living nor the dead, just the motion of the melted opals and the stillness of the greedy moon. That was sacred. Last week I lifted an old, warped pan off the stove with hot oil in it. I listened to the popping bubbles ping against the surface of the pan. It was this robotic orchestra of metallic harmonies that made Beethoven sound like shit. That was glorious. That was sacred.