through the open window

through the open window I hear the man upstairs. It sounds like he has gone crazy, throwing things and laughing, crash cackle wheezy chest rattle. screaming blue murder like an outspoken argument with himself, he fights both sides so always wins. Whilst those of us who over hear without a choice are the losers in a battle of sound-proofing. he makes noises I have never heard before and thumps his floor with such a bang I think my ceiling might fall in. I think he is having a break down. he protests loudly on the telephone telling the unheard speaker that it's not his fucking fault and don't you think you're being too loud now, it's not his fucking fault and shut up shut up shut up! and his voice booms out across the water, reflects back on ripples and in through my open window. He laughs and snorts to a comedy on TV but I'm never sure which station he is watching as nothing is that funny to me. and on Sunday morning before the sun rises he is happy, so happy, so top volume Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head springs out from his stereo accompanied by his own joyous noise he thinks is singing, droning pierce in out of key out of time out of disregard for other's sleep or peace and the screeches fall like scalpel blades on my ears. cutting up my quiet into tatters of splattered sound. It's nice to hear him happy I suppose. But for now i wait for winter when the windows will be closed.

Corral

Corral scraped my foot and cut me with its grey surface of dead colour, pinks and tangerines once there are matted with a lifeless hue of granite, graphite. Hues of blues and turquoise dancing waters ripples over faded gold and gone now into darkened depths are the stories that these creatures told. Pitted like the surface of the moon, craters rutted raped of grace, and any thread of life there was which scattered tangents of arcing light and sparkled glory to my sight has dulled through touch and tourists treading there. Crimson slices on soles now bare the mark of death that once was life.

Narrative of Memory

Into the distorted truth of half forgotten memories; into the rubble of shattered past, scattered shards of hardly any memory at all; into my supposed truth I step and stop and stoop to pick the pieces of nostalgic youth. I gather up my fractured facts, stack my stock of sentimental ramblings, give structure to my reverie and resurrect a child that could be me. Resistant to their version of events, I resent the tainted tales that they have told. I focus now on making new from old, on carving my account from what I know. I’m pushing out their piercing opposition, the splintered debris brushed aside; hushed inside the voice of my persistent point of view.