Saturday, 22 September 2012

[A MAMA'S SONG] - Berklee lyrical work


Verse One:

As the coldest Winter reigns in my heart
It shall colour my smile in greys
For your Daddy leaving's torn Mama's world
Now a snowflake, she falls and frays  NICE METAPHOR

In your Mama's mind, the red leaves have dropped

Like the tears that she tries to hide
For the Autumn warmth that once blazed has gone
With your Daddy whose hurt inside

Oh my dear baby boy
Will you forgive me?
Forgive me?
For telling your Daddy to go, to go
Oh my dear baby boy
Will you believe me?
Believe me?
One day when you're older and know, and know
One day when you're older and know

Verse Two:
There are times in Summer love burns my lips
But the memories never coolFor your Daddy runs like hot, stormy rainThrough your Mama, though he's a foolIn your Mama's eyes, your laugh twinkles brightAnd she feels that the skies are blueFor the Spring does blossom sweet buds of hopeWhich shall wipe all her tears of dewChorus:Oh my dear baby boyWill you forgive me?Forgive me?For telling your Daddy to go, to goOh my dear baby boyWill you believe me?Believe me?One day when you're older and know, and knowOne day when you're older and know

[LIES] - Lyrical work at Berklee

LIES (lyric)
Verse One:

You had me dissected
Took a knife, cut me up
Heart, body, soul - you rejected
Funny how your clever lies
I stupidly never expected

You left clues; directed

A gaze here, a wink there
Kisses, smiles though - they protected
Funny how your clever lies
I stupidly never suspected

No, no never ever so
La di da di di dum dum
La di da di di oh oh

Verse Two:
You had us connected
Friends we were, lovers became
Tears, anger though – I collected
Funny how your clever lies
I stupidly never detected

I had you; corrected
Took a knife, cut you up
Heart, body, soul - pain injected
Funny how your stupid lies
I cleverly just reflected

No, no never ever so
La di da di di dum dum
La di da di di oh oh
Funny how we truly know
The one who says
‘I love you so’
La di da di di oh oh

[GIRLIES & BOYS] - Wk1 Berklee's Creative Writing Class

When I was a young girl, just turned 7, my Mama gave each off my four sisters, two brothers and me, a copy of her very most favourite book in the whole wide world – Mr J.M. Barrie’s wonderful tale of Peter Pan. She’d reckoned there was something special about a Mama giving her children a little piece of her heart in the form of classical literature. Sort of like Mrs March had given Jo, Beth, Amy and Meg The Pilgrim’s Progress in Miss Louisa May Alcott’s famous Little Women, only the lands into which we all entered upon turning the front cover of Peter Pan, were far more magical and colourful than the lands in The Pilgrim’s Progress. Least so I suspected, because although I never read that masterpiece, I knew all about the hard knock lives pilgrims had once led, and didn’t think much of them.My older sister Georgia had helped me read Peter Pan the first few times I’d wanted to ‘read’ it. I’d a sat cross-legged and curious, while she’d read out loud the hard words I hadn’t known how to pronounce or understand. Mama never had used to have much time for reading, but she’d said she remembered the story of Peter Pan real well – almost as well as if she’d a written the book herself! She’d said she’d read it at least a million times by the time she’d turned fifteen and had become more interested in ‘other things’ to care about Peter, Wendy and The Lost Boys any longer. I hadn’t known what those ‘other things’ had meant til I’d turned ten and had overheard my other older sister Elisa making out with Bobby Fulton, her copy of Peter Pan stuffed so deep in her school-bag, it wouldn’t re-appear till Bobby Fulton had disappeared three months later. But only for a short while, because after Bobby Fulton had come Ian Horace and Kevin Jenkins and Michael Noels, and well I can’t remember no more names because there were so many, but by then Elisa always had a bunch of ‘other things’ on her mind.Georgia and I hadn't understood how Elisa could've betrayed Peter Pan like that, for in all fact, it'd really been a most awful betrayal! – we'd been so shocked about our older sister's preference of Ian Horace's mouthful of horrible metal braces over Peter's little 'gnashing pearls', we'd refused to talk to her for a whole week. Our younger brothers hadn't seemed to appreciate Mr J.M. Barrie's marvellous book very much either.
They preferred to play their best game of make-believe instead, the game of 'Pirates, Cowboys and Red-Indians'.
“Boys don't read!” Aaron had wrinkled his nose at me, while Nick had pulled a most digusted face from under his beloved cowboy hat. He’d got his cowboy hat on his birthday 7 months earlier, and hadn’t taken it off since. It was beginning to fray at the edges, and smell too, awful bad, but if anyone ever tried to tell him so, he'd use his horse Chestnut - Mama's best broomstick - on us.“Yeah, readings for sissy you Georgie-Porgie- ““ - and you April. Pooh, reading's crummy! I wanna go be a pirate, I don't wanna read about one!”
“And a cowboy, yeeehaaa! Giddy, giddy-up boy, I wanna gallop, I don’t wanna sit and read cause -!”
“That's boooo-ring -”“Yeah, cause that's boring with a capital B-O-R-R-I-N-G! Now go away or, or, or you're gonna get it with my tomahawk!”
“And I’m shoot you’s, bang-bang!”
Nick and Aaron had given Georgia and me earfuls. Without a smidgen of thought and scholarly knowledge, because if they'd a had any, they'd have known reading warn't just for sissy girlies, and you spelt the word 'boring' with one 'r' not two.


What the hell you staring at? Hmm? I see reflection in rear-view mirror, eh, you know, it broken but I have eyes in back of head, so I still see everything. You all dressed up like fancy, nancy boy. Shiny hair, it look like you not only put polish on shoes, but head too. Shoes, they good Italian leather, eh? Like my wife’s couch at home, but without big hole, because I no think you have children, ah-three crazy children who like make holes in couches.

Why you looking at me like you think I know nothing? Niente, nada. You think I no understand English, eh? But, I think maybe YOU no understand because you have little bitta too much drink tonight, no? You party boy; have ironed, straight tuxedo and bow tie but no more class. You not sit but fall over, make noises like you want show me what you eat at big party. I not want see it though. I just clean back-seat yesterday night, after another party boy who have same stupid idea.

Look how you, how you rolling eyes like you think you better than me. Rolling eyeballs round and round, call me bad names while I drive your stinky ass around. You point finger here, then there, but then you shake head, and say I turn at wrong streetlight. Why not you order limousine? Why you decide choose my poor yellow taxi? You already have me do circle round whole city two times! And, you still no idea where you want go. Hope you got the money to pay for this shit.

I need smoke a cigarette, I man of big patience, ask my wife, she tell you same thing, but you I no stand anymore. Don't open mouth, tell me to stop light up cigarette, or I leave you right here. That's right, cough up lung, tobacco soothe my soul, I never say nothing about it soothing yours. I don't talk English, remember? You rich schmuck. Maybe I look over my shoulder, and give you puff of smoke in drunk-skunk face. I make perfect ring, eh? Hehehehe, you stop the eyeball rolling now, eh? Too busy cough, turn bit more green like broccoli my wife make children eat...we all got to suffer sometimes...welcome to my world nancy boy, you hail me down, so now you got to suffer party…

[SUMMER OF 65's KISS] - Wk3

The summer of 65’, brown-grassed, warm hazy days that were cooled by unexpected water balloon bursts, ice-cold against my skin. You’d thrown a-plenty, this funny twitching grin playing about your lips…fizzy orange soda-pop covered lips, sticky but lickably yummy, and if I’d let you read my private journal, the sissy one covered in pink cherry flavoured stickers that you’d always wanted to sneakily snitch out of my hands, you’d a-known I had secretly wanted to kiss you.

I’d used to write in that journal every single night, sat in the fork of Papa’s apple tree just outside my bedroom window. High up there among the moonbeams, hidden in the dark green leaves and red, heart-shaped fruit, I’d used to write all about you. And, sometimes, if I was brave enough to take a wicked peek at your lit-up bedroom window, I’d used to see things that had make my innocent brown eyes pop wide open. My eyelashes would sweep down hurriedly then, and the giggles welled up so deliciously in my stomach, would rip free. Of course, I’d try my very best to smother them out so you wouldn’t hear me. I’d grab an apple, and stuff my mouth full of crunchy, sour sweetness, my mind only imagining what you were getting up to in your blinding twinkly-bottomed state. Elvis Presley, playing on your creaky-squeaking record player, used to have you doing all sorts of goofy moves, and oh boy, would you have turned but a brilliant shade of tomato red if you’d a-seen me spying while you’d shuffle-danced to ‘Blue Suede Shoes’!

I’d loved you every night, but had hated you every day. Because, oh, you’d been unbearable! Remember how you’d make me yelp and shriek? If it hadn’t been water balloons, it’d been slimy frogs legs or wriggling, squiggling worms. I’d be dancing around, one foot then the other, on hot coals of fury, waving my infuriated fists and glaring you down to shreds with my evil eyeballs. Threatening to knock your two front teeth out, especially your front left tooth, because it’d been chipped so cute as a result of that knee scraping, pinky breaking, nasty bike fall by the river, it made my knees turn to wobbling Jell-O.

I’d spent all that summer wishing you’d stop believing in girl cooties, but you never did. And so I’d never gotten that first kiss.

[BACK-SEAT] - Wk4 at Berklee

Your hands are a flutter, as they lay in your lap. Dainty, fingernails painted a soft pink, match your lips. It’s a little touch of colour, because you’d wanted to be pretty. You’d taken a whole day to get ready for your date to the drive-in. Mary-Janes and a floral print dress, the tiniest of braids and a brushing of rosy blush.
And for what?
Well, to find yourself being whiz-roared away, clinging for dear life at the back-seat of the wildest Pontiac Firebird that’d ever graced your parents’rich, fancy-frilled neighbourhood.
Driven by the hoodiest of hoodlums, it’d squealed to a stop at your Mother’s rose-bloom covered letterbox, and kidnapped you! A spluttering red-metal junk bucket, wheezing and a-sneezing on four thundering wheels. There’d been no seat-belt, yet there’d been no way of escape. Dressed in black leather, eyes darker than burning coal, he’d given you a grin and you’d been a goner.
And so now you sit, in the back-seat of his Firebird, pretending to watch the film. Your eyes though, have settled on a cigarette burn - coincidentally the shape of a rusty love-heart - that’s by your stockinged right thigh. You don’t want to look to your left thigh, because he’s right there, and you know he knows he’s making you squirm most uncomfortably. You also notice that there’s a frayed, gaping rip in the well-worn and bottom-dented back-seat on your side.
Amused, he says the back-seat’s gotten a lot of love rubbing and you gulp, throat tightening. Back-seat claustrophobia. He's too close, too too close. It’s a sudden ailment you've caught, with symptoms of fever, fast pulse and an inability to think straight.
"Do you want some popcorn?" He asks with a wicked stare, while you perspire into your lace and frills of innocence. Naive girl! Blind dates indeed!"Huh?" You squeak."Popcorn. You want some, Miss?" Your date's got a tattoo of an eagle, and a cigarette packet, half-empty, in his pocket. He doesn't smell too much like a smoking chimney, but you can tell by that grin, he's going to bring you nothing but trouble."Yes please."What's a girl like you, doing in a place like this, with a boy like that? Oh but, ooooh!

He winks as he leaves to get the popcorn, and promises he'll be back soon."Oh Mama, forgive me," Cheeks all a flaming, you squeak out your last squeak to the watching moon above, "Mama, forgive me for what I do tonight."

[METAPHOR SCRIBBLES] - Berklee Work Wks 5 to 7

His fingers twitch and itch wanting to walk through her spiral notebook’s door! Usually locked securely by a tiny heart-shaped key which she wears on a thin silver chain, he trembles when he finds that tonight she’s left the door’s padlock open. Mikey knows he’s being snoopy, but hope Ali forgives him! as he take a bemused step forward…entering her little world of imagination.
A place where Ali’s precious child-like thoughts run free, chasing yellow buttercups bobbing in the meadows. These meadows have lain in the deepest green valleys of Ali’s fertile mind for so so long, they’ve become run through by tale-telling bubbling streams that curl around Mikey’s ankles with infectious chortling.
He wades in, forgetting to shut the door behind himself. The pages that flurry about him, are too enchanting. Mikey’s lost within them, and he know he’s left tell-tale signs for Ali to know he’s been naughtily snooping. Mikey blushes as rosy pink as Ali’s whimsically scattered, red flowery-notes, reading {Ali luvs Mikey 4eva]. He hopes Ali won’t be too mad at him. He’ll bring her back a daisy flower growing by the banks of her sweet fantasies. A magical spot where her dreams cascade into rainbow pools that he can splash in.
Ali’s poetry and doodles make Mikey smile when they greet him. There are cheeky handshakes, and chuckling curtsies, welcoming him further into Ali’s mind. Creative and brilliant, Ali’s world’s turn page after page, and Mikey let himself frolic along the blue-lined lanes scrawled and scribbled…

You don’t love me, but I own you.
Like a marionette puppet, dangling helplessly on a thin ropey string that I manipulate, you do whatever I make you do. At any time of the black sparkling day, and at any time of the dark twinkling night, you're at my beck and call. In the spotlight, there to perform as I tell you. There is no escaping me, for my fingers are twined around your string tightly. You know real well, if you dare even put one foot out of place, I’ll be pulling you back.
You don’t say a single word, not a peeping squeak in protest of my control. Your feelings are encased within you. Silent feelings, though sometimes I think I may see something, a hateful glimmer in your wide-open brushed eyes. A burning stare, unblinking, letting me know you want out…out of our one-sided destructive relationship that’s got you hanging, strangled and choking behind the stage curtains where no-one sees. But you know I won’t let you go so easily. I hide the rope cutting scissors, out of your reach.
What happened to us?
Your mouth is painted, just a wooden inky black line, across your face. Its not a happy mouth no more, for there is no line-curling up at the corners…but I do not care. I tug at your heartstrings, wickedly opening your lips, and make you give me a puppet’s kiss.


Neighbourhood full of fragmented, hazy memories that I’ve tried to forget. All as cracked as the old, crumbling pavements that line our winding, cherry-blossom scented street.
I'd been the girl next door, and you'd been the boy next door.
Diapered, we’d toddled around, cinnamon-apple mushed baby food dribbling from our dimpled chins to our stripey-spotted bibs. You and me had been the very best of friends, together, always chortling and playing “This little piggy” with our tiny toes. We’d caught twinkling butterflies flitting in the tall grass-blades, and then...then, there'd come one strangely special and whimsical day where we’d fallen in love.
You’d given me a simple, string-tied bouquet of twiggy cherry buds, just as sweet as you.
But we’d been different…same we’d thought, but they’d thought different.
From behind their outwardly ‘welcoming’ closed doors and pretty curtained windows, the neighbourhood had had eyes watching, ears listening, tongues wagging…wicked soft whispers at first, but then they’d grown louder.
Interfering meddlers...they'd meddled, muddying what we’d held precious and pure.
Tearing, wearing down our spirit, and ruining the glue we’d called friendship.
Gossipers had gossiped, weaving rumours, threading untruths, breaking our innocence. After that, it hadn't taken long for the spindly, ivy-covered fence between our homes to become strangling prison bars separating us.
I still remember the chastising, criticizing words my parents had spoke. You hadn’t been good enough, because you’d looked different, talked different, and believed different. We’d been too young and our love had been fractured, too fragile to fight.
And so by the time the cherry blossoms had fallen and we’d said goodbye, the neighbourhood stood shattered, much like our hearts, forever divided by a broken street of dreams...the ones we'd made but had never come true.

[FANGY NEEDLE] - Wk8 at Berklee, Metaphor stuff

Gulping at the rubbery hand that’s suddenly appeared before you, you begin to tremble. Sweat beads form on your forehead and your breathing becomes laboured. You know you shouldn’t be afraid of ‘it’, because you are indeed much bigger than ‘it’, but you can’t help it. It’s a phobia, a real phobia of creepy crawly proportions!
In the dimly lit examination room, bare and clinically white with metallic cobwebs of sterilised stretchers, tables and hand basins that you’ve bumped into, you find the ‘hand’ a most mortifying sight. You stare, heart failing and wide-eyed at the five gloved fingers, as they crawl towards your poor arm which now lays exposed and vulnerable.

The ‘hand’ pauses momentarily to steadily size up your arm. On deeming it a perfect prey, juicy and sweetly suckable, the ‘hand’ - with its formidable five gloved fingers - draws up into a fear-inspiring stance, its held needle sharply poised all ready to attack.

And, attack it does! The ‘hand’ lurches forwards and with ferocity and cunning, jabs at its goose-pimpled arm prey. Your arm has no chance of escaping it in time, and soon you feel the venom seep in to paralyze you with the dreaded faints. You know you’ll never make it to the door now. The ‘hand’ will have to call on its many needle fanged buddies, to wrap you up and escort you to the jellybean jar.

[BULLYING SUMMER] - Wk9's Friday's Work at Berklee

The summer came and picked on me, pinching me, poking me with its scalding fingers. Blistering my pale winter skin, igniting me up so bad inside, that I started to see red. Feel red.

I hated being picked on, so I tried to rebel against it, slapping on a T-shirt, a hat and some sun-cream, wanting to defend myself. Trying to show I wouldn’t stand for its mean, horrid attempts to bake me alive. It wanted to see me shrivel right under its burning glare. Rays so bright, they would’ve blinded me, had I not been quicker and had whipped out my sunglasses. Sticks and stones can break my bones, but no summer sun can hurt me! I didn’t want to be a chicken, running away into the shade of Mr Gum Tree’s protective arms, No, no, I wanted to stay, swelter it out, put my fists and umbrella up, and fight.

First it teased me. Nasty little sneers and jeers that tried their best to blacken me. I could feel my poor ears reddening for oh, my humiliation was just awful. But, I told myself to brave it out just a little longer. So I put on my super-hero bikini, and jumped into the boiling rumble with a SPLASH! Not waiting for another roasting taunt to come, I struck out. Hit after hit, I dived and surfaced, not letting it get even one shot at me!

Until I made the mistake of believing I was strong enough to have beaten the heat. Foolishly turning my back on the flames, I clambered out of the stewing rumble in search of a towel to wipe at my perspiring, dripping body...

And that’s when it came at me! Knocking me off my feet, flat onto my back, where I found myself panting, squirming most uncomfortably, as it singed me to a crispy brown. Its cruelness was without mercy, and it was only when I called out for Mrs Autumn’s help, that my steaming bully disappeared.


Dearest dear Danny,

Snort a little regret, why don’t you? Yeah, inhale it deep.
Let it fill your soul and twist your mind, twist, twist, twisted, because we both know you’ve screwed our love over and need to pay. Don’t you want to suffer together? Snort and slip into dark euphoric, crazy-weird psychedelic spirals of colour?

From now on, it’ll distort every single little thing you will ever do. Our paths have separated, but you’ll never be able to give us up. The conscience makes your heart race so fast it hurts, doesn’t it? Your blood’s pumping remorse that’s so toxic, it feels like it could kill you…take the snorting nice and slow, cause you know…if you don’t, it just might.

Feel the pangs of anguished anxiety and panicked paranoia rock you upside-down. They stop you from thinking straight, seeing right. Dilating your baby brown pupils so wide open, you see hallucinations of us dancing, visions of our once promised happily ever after.

Happily never after!

You want to know what these visions are, hmm? They’re just the erratic ‘what if’s?’ your disturbed mind’s conjuring! Simply figments of your apologetic imagination, because when you’re no longer on your day-dream high, you know we’re truly over. Reality returns sooner or later, and the fantasies fade into nothing.

It turns your insides outside, don’t it? Soon, you’ll be on the ground, your body twitching restlessly, eyes rolling as the black powder particles of guilt and sorrow take over your system. You could’ve done this instead of that, been someone else, but no, you didn’t and you weren’t. It’s too late to turn back once the ruining begins. You can’t nose bleed it out, you know. It’s an addiction that you’re stuck with. A way of punishing yourself even though you don’t want to.

Happy snorting.

Love not, Ali


A Maths lesson is a Western movie.
With screeching fast bullets of white chalk firing against the blackboard, bang, bang, whizzing, bang!
“YEHA! Let’s get to work class! What do you get when you call on a good cowboy to subtract a bad cowboy? Quick, think, how about one peaceful town and a happy, boot-scooting sheriff?!”
The front row student’s try their very best to duck the exploding bombs scattering flying saliva-debris. There’s a lot of it, and it comes straight from the teacher's shouting mouth. Oooh, a duel seems to be on, and it’s one class scoundrel against one class sheriff, who’s already seething most terribly. Two pairs of eyes exchange two, slow motion, close-up glares. And then…then, two hands reach for two duelling weapons – one is a mean, old detention slip, and the other, a nasty wad of already chewed and spit out gum.
The girls giggle coquettishly, hiding red-cheeked behind their fanning notebooks. They want the scoundrel to win, because even though the Principal has a ‘Wanted, dead or alive’ warrant out for him, he is still the dashing-est heart stealing bandit around. Besides that, no-one wants to be in a dull and dusty classroom scene, where death by boredom only occurs. A battle of words will be fought, but just like on the silver screen, nobody will really get hurt.
Even if later on, we find ourselves serving a lunch-time sentence, locked in a small square-shaped jail cell office. A tremble worthy place for all the lily livered cowards, awaiting their hanging, when its their turn to step up to the town sheriff's desk for marking. It’s a hard wait, for all have gotten red crosses by their names.
The atmosphere soon grows heavy. Only the victorious, whooping war cries of passing, skipping-class students in the hall, are filled with happiness. They're wild and free, while we're stressed and oppressed, calculating just how long we can stay alive for, before our eyelids droop shut.

[EARTHQUAKE IN MY MIND] Wk12 Berklee work

“Mikey, something’s going on with you, and it’s scaring me.”
”Nothing’s going on.”Silence.
Like the calm before a storm, except this time, it’s an earthquake that’s brewing. An earthquake so strong, it’s off the richter scale. The cracks are already appearing, and I ain’t talking about the ones everyone can see if they look hard enough. Like the ones running down my arms, my body, across my face. Skin layers shifted and scarred, bruised black and blue by a fracturing force of nature my Mother hasn’t been able to stop for seven years. I’m talking about the other cracks.
The ones in my mind.

“Yeah there is, man. I get the feeling it’s been going on for a long time now, and Mikey, I wanna know.”The walls in my mind are cracking.
I look up at Chris. He looks shaken up, kinda pale. The ground’s been moving under his Nike sneakers lately. He’s been seeing the lie pillars swaying.
“Nothing to tell.”
Our friendship’s been built on them. Pillars of stone-hard lies which my mouth can’t help telling. Strong on the outside, yet weak on the inside, and now they’re crumbling. Just like all reinforcements do, when they’re made out of a load of crap.
We’ve been best mates since kindergarten, but I’ve been real good at planting smiles and shit on my cracks. Cementing the truth over…until my mind began to splinter.
”Mikey come on, I know something’s not right. Something’s all screwed up with your family."”Nothing’s screwed up."
I close my swollen eyes, swallowing back the seismic wave of vomit that’s wanting to spill. Getting thrown about like a rag doll, swept off your feet and being bumped and banged about the head, does that to a person. I’d tried to grab a hold of something to get back to my feet. I’d tried to find a place to hide, had aimed for my bed, but it’d been too powerful. You ever tried crawling on all bleeding fours, when you’re being knocked over?
“Yeah? Nothing’s screwed up, huh?”
There’s disbelief in his voice.
He can’t believe he’s hearing that word again. What can I say? A limited vocabulary has always been effective in countering the warning alarms ringing in his head.
Til now.
Cause now, he senses there’s an earthquake coming. A big one. He’s seen me trembling for too long, and he knows my mind’s cracking.
This time, Chris is looking down at me, and I know I’m kinda pale too. Curled up on the floor, broken, I can’t be any other colour. I’ve been bent out of shape, and it hurts.
“How long are you planning on hiding this?”
“Ain’t hiding nothing.”
“It’s your Dad, hey? Mikey.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Man, we can go to the poli-“

You can’t ever win against a force of nature, you know?
You can try. You can try and try and try, try for seven years. You can move to avoid it; run away from home, and spend a few nights at your friend’s house. A place where the sun always shines bright yellow and happy, and the floral plates in the kitchen never lift off the shelves to be shattered. And then, then when you’re sick of that, you can try living out on the streets. Or, you can get yourself a suit of armour. A silver bladed pocket knife to protect your body, and a smoking joint or two, to protect your mind from cracking at the reality it ain’t ever going to stop trying to hurt you.
Like mine has.

Chris watches as I open my eyes. I don’t look at him this time. I stare at the wall behind him. It’s blank.
“Nothing’s going on.”
When it wants to hurt you, it’ll hurt you.
Ask my Mother. Her eyes are as blank as the wall I’m staring at. Her mind cracked a long time ago. She spends her days climbing out of the rubble it leaves her in, and spends her nights being buried alive under it. She knows she’ll never get away from its power.

“Hell nothing’s goin’ on, look at yourself!” Chris wants to save me. He wants his best mate back. “I’m, I’m getting my Mum and we’re, man, we’re calling the police –“
He wants me to survive.
But I have other ideas.
I heave, and up comes my vomit.
It’s a rushing tidal wave of acid-eaten, half putrefied green breakfast, and it splashes against his Nikes already tinted by my blood. I fold over, starting to laugh. It’s the sort of laughter a crazy person whose cracked, laughs. Sometimes all a person’s got left, is their sense of humour.
Doesn’t he know the damage has already been done?
Doesn’t he know the police can’t do shit?
There’s an earthquake brewing.