Vertigo By Proxy

Hey jellyfish,
hey lost balloon,
who let you go?
And where you floating to?
The background's getting
darker, darker,
deeper, blacker blue.

There you are, inside a
tiny capsule, just for you.
Where did you come from, tiny man?
Where are you going to?

Nice helmet.
Nice space suit.
Are you going to outer space?
Well, I know that you are scared,
because I see it in your face.

Checking checking
everything. Checking,
Everything. Did you
check this? Can you
hear me?

We're watching you.

The door opens.
I could vomit,
watching you.

Let go, let go.
But don't. Please, don't.
(But do).

And there, below, the world curves.
Vast and round, and
nauseous blue.

Little white man,
how my stomach
churns for you!

And suddenly you're
dropping,
tumbling,
falling,
little fleck in
endless blue.

The world is watching,
but not breathing;
Your mother's crying
for you.

I can't believe what I am watching.
I can't believe I'm watching you.
Little thunderbird. Plastic figurine
my little brother threw.

You'll snap when you land,
I fear, though I don't want you to.
You'd shatter into pieces when
you land out of the blue.

But you don't.
Your parachute unfurls.
Small petal, white on blue.
Your feet touch down to
earth just like we
prayed for them to do.

Story, Plot

Story

The girl phoned the boy to say that she was coming. When she hung up, he got up off the sofa and put an Edith Piaf vinyl on his record player. Then he made himself a cup of coffee and sat back down, rolling a cigarette. Meanwhile, the girl rolled out of bed. She pulled a bottle green dress on over her head a little haphazardly, and pulled up black stockings, a little more carefully. Brushed her teeth violently. Shoved her feet into tan leather boots. She tied her hair up into a loose bun. Some strands fell down the nape of her neck. She shrugged on a navy duffle coat, grabbed her keys and, slamming the door of her apartment, flew down the black stone steps of her apartment building. At the bottom she unchained her bike from the drainpipe in the hall way, and wheeled it round clumsily. The pedal tore a hole in her tights and left a bruise. She opened the door, mounted the bike and free-wheeled down her cobbled street, into the cold night air. When she got to his apartment she chained up her bike and rang his bell. He threw her the keys from his fourth story window. She caught them, and let herself in. By the time she reached his apartment she was out of breath. He was at the door waiting for her. They embraced. They kissed. They spoke. And they went inside, shutting the door behind them.

Plot

The boy heard his phone vibrating on the table again. He walked to the window. The girl was standing in the street, looking up at him. Smiling. He threw her his keys. She caught them. Moments later he heard her footsteps on his stairs. She could hear Edith Piaf. He went to open the door and there she was. Wearing that dress he liked. Wearing her hair up, because he said she looked beautiful like that, even though she didn't think so. She had a small hole in her tights at the shin. Her boots were scuffed. He took her in his arms. They kissed. He tasted of coffee, and cigarettes. She tasted of toothpaste. Her nose was cold. "Your keys hurt my hand," she said. "How did you get here?" he said. "Cycled," she said. "Come inside," he said. "It's warm."

This Modern Love

(Disclaimer: this is about being at a gig.)

There's a small, round bruise,
on my arm, below my wrist.
Liver-red on ivory.
Like a lover's kiss.

Small relic of a mystery blow
Inflicted by some flailing limb.
Bone on bone. Blood
blooms under skin.

The lights flash blue and black;
I'm crashing, smashing, into you.
This raucous, clumsy, modern love
has left me black and blue.

Glossy Leaves

On the bridge
In the bright Autumn sun,
The wind made a magazine
read itself.

Giving Up

Sometimes giving up makes you feel worthless. You feel as though you've crawled through the desert and died of thirst fifty metres from an oasis. You feel weak and small and sad, faded, tired out, deflated like an empty balloon.

Sometimes giving up is a weight off your shoulders, a weight you were carrying all your life, that you never knew about. And suddenly it's gone, and you feel as though you should be flying upwards but instead you fall to your knees with relief, with joy.

Before you give up you never know which feeling it will be.
I'm about to give up.
I'm about to see.

Tattoos

I dreamt, again, last night, that I got some tattoos. Three tattoos on my right arm.
One of a turtle, with the word 'turtle' under it.
One of an arm. A tattoo of an arm, bicep curled, inked onto my bicep. How meta.
The third was a small green jewel, drawn on my wrist. Badly.
It didn't hurt, in the dream. And at first I really liked them, though I can't say why, considering how tasteless they were. Then someone pointed out to me that they were ugly. And permanent. And suddenly came the revelation, the disgust, the regret. I spent the rest of the dream walking around looking for somewhere that did tattoo removal.

I have had this dream more times than I can count. Different tattoos, in different places. Always hideous. And always, the sense of regret is enormous, overwhelming; it consumes me, devours me whole. And every time I wake, the relief is immense. I feel reborn, clean, as though I have had a second chance at life.

I've always listened to my dreams, a little. I haven't gotten a tattoo, for example. Because it seems that's what the dream is telling me. But now, I realise, that I was never really listening. No, not at all. Because I think in reality it's a dream about regret. About the permanence of my actions, about how the past cannot be undone. Though I try to pretend that, in forgetting, it is gone. No, no. Never gone. It will never be gone. There is no laser removal. And though my actions don't show up as ugly markings on my skin, they will never go away.

I am full of regrets. I am so regretful. I am covered in ugly, invisible tattoos.
And I should realise that if I don't want ugly tattoos, then I shouldn't get them in the first place.

The Jade Man

Beneath the glass cabinet before me lay the dead man. Not dead, really. Not a man.

But the concept was there, evoked in a way that moved me to stillness. The idea of a dead man, spread out on black cloth and lit with museum light, crystalline and quiet. A person mapped out in pieces of jade, smooth and green as sand-smoothed glass. Jade feet. Jade shins. Jade knees. Jade buttocks, jade phallus, jade heart, jade hands. Two jade eyes, two jade ears, a jade nose, and a jade tongue, carved to look like a cicada. All thousands of years old, all taken from different tombs. Here, now, in unison, parts of a new whole. I imagined the pieces, long ago, being laid gently onto the body of the dead one. The coldness of the stone on the eyelids refreshing, a baptism. The gradual descent, as the body melted into decay,  of the jade emblems, until eventually they touched bone. The blackness of the earth around them. The worms that could not bore them.

It left me with the strange desire to lie down on the museum floor, cold hands open, cold feet pointing skywards. To sleep until my body melted away and left only smooth green jade.