What Happens When I Write With My Eyes ShutMature

The title explains itself...

Don’t make it rhyme. It’s not poetry. It’s free writing. That means you conjure up stuff that no one else has ever written. You make your own personal history. Forget the underlines of mistakes, green and red and blue. Forget all the rules, through the book in the shredder along with your inner critic. You shouldn’t care when it comes to this what pumps out your fingertips. Just write. Just flow. Glide, float, slide, mix and mingle words with other words that would never normally go. Force them together, however silly they seem. Something will explode from this, and you can use it. You’ve done it before, you’ll do it again. Just let – yourself – go.




                Goldfish skyscrapers adorn the forest bowl with hungry apple seeds. Tonic water seeps through blades on branches and dribbles down the plastic bark. Bunny rabbits tumble down the fells like tumbleweed and you watch them, counting the rotations. You laugh to yourself, like the time you did when the lollypop man saved you from falling, or when the butcher saved you from dancing.

                The rocking chair wheels fall off into the night and spin away with madness. They can’t stand being watched by the floating moon and your hands move gracefully over your tightly shut lips, stifling a giggle.

                Melon drops splash heavily into your lap. You cough at the sight of their sprouting seeds which bloom into lightning colours. Paint sticks to the walls in a wash of greens and blues. It bleeds. You bleed. You lick the freshly oozing blood like savouring a melting ice cream on a summer’s day at the beach, catching each droplet with a salivating tongue. It tastes like iron and fizzes like licking the top of a battery. You used to do that when you were a kid to feel the buzz on the tip of your tongue as spit reacted with electricity. Now you know better.

                Trivial pieces of a jig saw puzzle trundle through the cave of bananas and you’re compelled to sing. You sing the banana song into the sleepy colour of caving blackness. Sing it. You can’t. You sit down and ponder. You hear the noise of the incessant dripping from a far off dying waterfall and you contemplate the dimensions of a little garden gnome. His funny little red hat droops flaccidity almost onto his forehead. Still he smiles and his eyes hold an expression of joy. His little shovel in his raised right hand a symbol of work, a crude incentive for you to continue gardening when you feel you want to collapse and die, or dig your own grave after you’ve dug ones for each and every flower.

                Underneath the seat you find the corpse. Basslines play in your head; slow, deep, thumping gently. It’s the corpse from the hospital. The one you saw earlier when it was then a someone. Now it is a nothing, a stiff. Its crooked jaw and cratered head sag rigidly like a broken bridge over flooded rivers. It screams at you in deathly silence, begging for revival. You give it none. You kick it.

                Now at the brink of a car crash you inhale breathes of lemonade and exhale smoky dark bullet proof drinking straws. Shut your eyes. Concentrate. You’re losing it. You’re losing it...Shut your fucking eyes and focus.

                Deep within the caverns of the needle hay stack hurricane you find the hairdressers and the green grocers. You find their graves, you find their rotting bodies. We’re back to corpses again but your don’t care you want more. You can’t resist the blood lust. The blood. The blood, oh the sweet sugary blood. Not iron. Yes, clench the fist in frustration and purse the lips in anger, suck in the cheeks to look tough, frown like an angered bull and charge at the wall head first to kill the pain, to numb the frozen tackle of the heavy nodding robot.

                Sleep. Fall, slowly. Deep. Sleep. Catch the bubbles as they land and burst after split second static. Drum faster and stop when you ache. Feel the pull in our arms and the throb of the blood as you relax. Again, blood. Don’t ask yourself why just keep typing. You will find the answer. The answer will bleed out and the keys will fall off as you type to your heart’s contempt. Open and close your eyes and your hands become skeletal. Feel them. Feel the veins beneath your withered knuckles and the hairs on the surface of your tattered skin. The body cries of for pain and torture.

                A donkey plods a slow route home with a heavy load to carry. The heat is pelting down and its shivering hooves are buckling under the weight of the sun. It’s courageous. It’s determined. It closes its eyes and whips the flies away with its ears.

                Close your eyes. You don’t want to. You feel annoyed and you don’t want to do this but you’re suddenly sad. The sadness is overwhelming. No it isn’t. It is, it’s like someone’s stuck a knife down my throat and it’s emerged through one of my knees. It’s twisting like a drill bit, penetrating with sky blue accuracy. That’s it, got the power back again.

                Heavy handed lecturers with strongly roped up wrists, fighting for their school work and their sugar snap pea pods. The bastards shouldn’t have wondered through Old Garrison’s hedge rows again. Muddy torn up jeans and a frayed and slacking unbuttoned shirt. He won’t be pleased but the badgers didn’t mind, no, nor the otters or the beavers. They water glided their way to safety as you paddled onwards like a giant inspecting a heard of sheep. Ever watchful, ever thoughtful like a dreaming mountain bobbing on a bowl of jelly snakes.

                Grind the cheese maker and snap him in two. The man didn’t deserve to live with all those curds getting in the whey. Kill him. Drown him in a vat, growl at his CORPSE. You’re still coming back to the dead. It’s a vicious circle with you and the unliving and for the life of you, you cannot escape it. But as the shark digests human bodies and the insects slowly devour in their millions they hear the echoes of previous countrymen standing in line for the crush.

                The guillotine, the rapid slicing the rapid succession of death in a basket, heads rolling. Sandwiches are passed around the crowd to shut up crying babies and entertain the avengers coming to watch the blood show. Some are filled with human meat and some are filled with the ears of abandoned kittens, salted and roasted in the flames of a drunken man’s fart as he ignites it. The beery fumes give them all a beer smell and therefore a taste like no other.

                People are standing around getting drunk off their own trousers. Ladies sup their gin and whiskey cocktails while the men jig from one leg to the other while vying for attention from crocodiles and mongoose babies as each of them swings from a chandelier before coming to land in a splash of diamonds and crystals and glass beads with broken light bulbs crunching in the centre.

                Keep on focussing it’s like chocolate dolphins have attacked your commanding cucumber base and all hell has broken loose. The aubergines have collapsed and completely scarpered, the tomatoes on toast have slipped off the cheese board and the pizza trays have given up the ghost. We’re all properly screwed and if we don’t act fast, the huge bellied sweetcorn face will come and rampage our corridors, naked, while swinging a piece of active volcanic rock attached to a length of spiked wire around the place. Imagine the mess that’ll make. It’ll be no spring salad, that’s for sure, now battle stations every pig. Pigs, rise! We need your bacon and we need it now, you fucking understand you bunch of oinking idiots? Pigs, march! The attacking forces are lethal and they will stop at nothing. Grab all your bacon and chops and head for Surrey. They need you most. Forget Israel and Chicago, they can wait. Go, go, go!

                The piglets stayed behind and watched the nursery channel all day while their fathers were our risking their scratchings and pork bellies. They minded each and every step and as the bullets hailed down from the dolphin HQ they squealed in pain and shocked agony. Twisted bodies of Sunday roasts lay grizzled in the dirt and dust.

                You must go home and tell your mother about the massive blockage in your nose passage. It has to get out. You have to sneeze. It’s like your sleep walking and you can’t breathe unless someone shakes you awake and you’re free to breathe. Sometimes they’ll have hold of your nose in the night and you won’t realise until you’re fully conscious. That’s when you whack them one, right in the bum cheek if they’re facing away from you, otherwise you can punch them square in the face and you won’t have to mind. They might bleed and bruise and moan at you but they should’ve thought about the tinned tuna before they bullied the beef! They never think of things like that. Olive sticks and candle clothes are not on people’s agendas these days so they never know what to expect.




The End

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