kryptophilia 5

7/28/2019 kryptophilia 5

1/22

kryptophilia

is

a

poetryand

prose

fanzine


2/22

kryptophilia issue 5

Issue 5 jan/feb 2004 frontispiece

Welcome to issue5 ofkryptophilia. kryptophilia, for those who have not encountered it before,is a fanzine dedicated to poetry and short prose. The prose should be something unusual: science

fiction, horror, fantasy, tales with a twist, and so on. Poetry can be on anything at all. New

contributors are decidedly welcome.

All articles, stories, poems, are considered to be copyright of their respective authors (see

credits).

kryptophilia is published by Black Druid Publications. Submissions are welcome. Anybody

wanting their submissions returned should include a SSAE. Submissions can be sent to the

Idwals Books, Market Street, Stourbridge. kryptophilia is published bi-monthly - this issue, Jan,

Feb 2004.

Black Druid Publications are :

Phil Drew - President, Editor, neurotic

Ben Smith - Vice President, Publicity, all around good egg

contentsPage Content

1 Cover

2 Frontispiece2 Contents

3 Story - Back To The Old House

5 Poem - Oh Well

6 Poem - The (Bag) Lady And The Tramp

7 Story - Seven More Years

10 Poem - There Is A Shop

11 Poem - Rain

11 Poem - Gardener

12 Poem - Another Winter

12 Poem - Like

13 Poem - By The Railway Line

13 Poem - Everybody Knows

14 Poem - Winter Is Full Of Life

14 Poem - Dead Dreamer

15 Poem - Estates

15 Poem - Old School Desk

16 Poem - Half-Voices

16 Poem - I Am17 Poem - Mental

17 Poem - Text Poem 1

17 Poem - Rhyming Couplet #5

18 Story - September 1752

23 Credits

- 2 -


3/22


Back To The Old House

I didn't want to go back to the old house, it had too many memories for me. Some of them good,

some of them bad. But I was the only one left, now, in the area. The rest of my family had moved

away. Even if only to clear out this inherited house, to enable me to sell it, I knew that I must

return.

Many of the things had already been moved out after the funeral. I was surprised to see how

little remained, how much had changed. The house seemed smaller than I had remembered, even

in the rooms where the furnishings had been removed, inherited by some relative who, unlike me,

had managed to escape the city's bounds. I was the only one left. The house was mine, now. So

why did I feel as if it owned me?

The packing cases had arrived. We had always used to call them tea chests when I was young.

Most of the downstairs of the house, and two of the bedrooms, were lighter in furnishings than

before, a vase sent to an aunt here, an old armchair bequeathed to an uncle there. My parents'

room remained untouched, as it had been since their deaths. Everything in there belonged to me. I

did not go in.

I did not stay at the house, even though it would have made sense to do so, as I would have to

spend a lot of time there during the upcoming days. I did not want to sleep in the house that I had

loved when I was a child. I left early, each day, before the onset of dark.

The first thing that I did was to entirely clear out one of the bedrooms. It was the one where I

had slept in when I was a child. It was the one that I had played in, the one that I had cried in. I

was not satisfied until every item was removed, and stored in packing cases, so that only the bare

floorboards, and a single 80 watt light bulb overhead, remained. The room seemed larger with all

the furniture and furnishings removed - yet how much smaller it seemed than when I was a child.

Walking across the bare floorboards, I heard one of them creak. I recalled that self-same creak

from years before. What fun I had had, walking backwards and forwards, just to hear it creak.

How I had caused so much annoyance to my brother with such a simple action. As I stood there,

looking at the floor, I began to cry.

As I stifled my unbidden tears, I remembered that another floorboard, near the skirting board,

had been loose. One night, my brother and I had rolled back the rug, and had succeeded in pulling

a small piece of floorboard up, creating a small hidey-hole in which we could hide things fromthe prying eyes of our parents - toy soldiers, sweets, comic books that they didn't like. I wondered

if any of these items still remained. I tried to find the loose floorboard, but they were all secure. It

must have been nailed back down a long time ago.

Why is it that children always love the things that adults hate, and hate the things that adults want

you to have? To my parents, all comics, be they Spider-Man or the Silver Surfer, were simply

'horror comics' to be disposed of at the first opportunity. Being given Brussels sprouts to eat didnot make up for their loss, oddly enough.

I wondered if I should put boards up at the windows, to stop people throwing stones through.

Why is it that empty houses always have broken windows? Do young boys break windows to get

into empty houses and have a mooch about. I don't remember doing that when I was young. I

don't remember knowing anyone who did that when they were young, either. Mind you, most of

the boys that I knew were too busy trying to get girls to kiss them behind the bike sheds.

I didn't think that I remembered much about my childhood, at all, until I went back to the old

house.

I have to get out of that place.

- 3 -


4/22


I don't believe in hope.

There was so much to do in the days following the funeral, so many people to see. So much house

to clean, ready for any prospective buyers. I never once considered not selling the house. Estateagents claim that they will not have any problems selling the house. But first I have to finish

cleaning out the detritus of life.

My parents' bedroom lies untouched, the key still in the lock to the bedroom door. It has not

been touched since the day they died. Not conscious of doing it, I turn the key in the lock, and

remove it. I will do the bedroom last.

I clean and clear out the rest of the house piecemeal, with no order nor reason. It takes me a lotlonger than I had intended. I keep remembering things. I remember the first cat that we ever had,

a black short-haired thing. I can't remember its name, nor what happened to it. I guess it must

have died. Perhaps it got run over by a car. Its funny, but it must have been the first time that I

thought of that cat for at least a quarter of a century. Did we have any other pets that I can't

remember? I remember the dogs and the rabbits. Did we have a goldfish, too, once? Or did that

belong to a friend of mine? I don't know.

How many pets died while I was a child? How many poor animals did we have just for our

amusement? I can only remember the names of the dogs.

I don't want to be here.

Too many bad memories of good things. Happier times that had fled into the dark, and that should

have been left there. Why does remembering good times make me cry? I should be laughing.

What happened to all the books that I read as a child? The entire Famous Five series, the SecretSeven, and Doctor Who novelisations when I was older? Did I sell them when I had grown out of

them, or were they merely thrown away, discarded fragments of a youth that could not be

recaptured? I have no books now that date from before my latter teenage years. I have 'Conan',

but no 'Noddy'; Stephen King, but no Enid Blyton at all. Perhaps all my old books were recycled

and are now the pages of some work of literature. Perhaps I will one day come across one of my

old books in a jumble sale, complete with my spidery signature. Perhaps. More likely they rotted

away on a garbage dump.

I did not wish to excavate these thoughts, they returned to me unbidden, like old, bad pennies. I

used to have a coin collection. I found it again, some time ago. Why is it that children - especially

boys - enjoy collecting things so much? In my time, it used to be postage stamps - small, bright,

coloured things. Now, its Pokemon cards - small, bright coloured things. What are we - magpies?

Will rare Pokemon cards ever be worth the same as those early stamps from Mauritius? Or is their

current inflated worth merely a passing fad. Who cares? Not I.

I will sort out my parents' room soon. I wonder where I have put the key. I don't even recall

taking it out of the lock. But I realise that I must have. The door looks locked. But I don't try the

handle, just in case it opens.

How could we have been so happy as children, when we had so little? There was no satellite

television, no Playstation, no dvds, no videos, no internet, no home computers, no expensive

trainers for our feet (we had pumps rather than trainers). Yet I don't really remember being bored.

Far less bored than I am today, or how today's children appear to be. We were more creative, my

friends and I. We had to be.

We had Lego, toy soldiers, books, games, and our imaginations. We used to 'play' when adults

were not around. It was important not to have adults around, although I cannot recall why, now.

- 4 -


5/22


Perhaps it was something to do with 'the suspension of disbelief' - adults were part of the real

world.

I start to remember the reveries of imagination that my mind would wander along. Plastic

cowboys and Lego would be combined to create astronauts, boldly going forward on a spaceship

into the unknown, to crash and be stranded on some planet, its rocky formations constructed fromEnid Blyton novels and sea-shells. When did I stop being able to play? And why? Why do we

have to grow up? Why can't we just carry on cowering behind the sofa whenever something scarylike Doctor Who or Star Trek comes on?

I have tried my best not to grow up. But I'm not Peter Pan. I hated the movie 'Hook', and it had

nothing to do with Robin Williams being in it. 'Hook' destroyed the legend, the one hope of there

being a boy, somewhere, who never had to grow up.

I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. My school friends all wanted to be things like

astronauts, or firemen, or nurses, or the like. Perhaps I never knew what I wanted to be because I

never wanted to acknowledge that childhood must someday end. Perhaps that is why I am so sad,

now - returning to a place that I have lost; and that, although I can recall fragments, I can never

fully return.

I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. But I have found the key to my parents'room, the room that was theirs, and that I was never allowed in as a child. And time moves on.

I open the door, and go in. It's just a room, with furniture to clear out. I don't recognize anything

in there.

Perhaps I'll keep the house after all.

Oh Well

I don't believe:I know,

I wish I didn't,

So low.

The world is greater,

I'm less,

No more miracles:

None left.

There is no heaven,

No hell,

Except those we make;

Oh well.

- 5 -


6/22


The (Bag) Lady And The Tramp

I saw you standing there,

With your long grey hair,

And I knew, I knew,

That I was the one for you.

You saw me standing here,

You drank your can of beer,

And I knew that it must be -

That you were the one for me.

I saw you standing there,

And knew that life was fair,

For no sweeter love

Could I ever dream of.

You gazed with eyes of dream,

And though you weren't that clean,In your greying string vest,

I knew you were the best.

So please give this old fool

(Who never went to school)

Some lessons of the heart:

For we must never part.

I'll give you all I can,

If you'll but be my man,

I've waited all my life

To be somebody's wife.

And so, the two were wed,

The priest: a tramp called Fred;

The ring: a lager pull;

With tears their eyes were full.

For joy had made them damp;

The lady and the tramp,

For once, in all their years

Had conquered all their fears.

And though they weren't that young,

They may yet sing their song,

In some grove grown shady:

A tramp, and his (bag) lady.

- 6 -


7/22


Seven More Years!

"Four more years! Four more years!" the people shout, patriotically elated in the ovation of the

man who everybody, absolutely everybody, expected to retain the Presidency of the most

powerful nation on the face of the planet.

If some twenty years ago, or even less, you had asked anybody who knew him, whether this

man would ever become President of the United States of America, then they would have laughed

in your face. He was a drunkard, a washed up profligate idiot, who you would not have trusted to

park your car, let alone run a public company. Yet, here he was, years later, coming to the end of

his first term as U.S. President.

He came, of course, from a family that, for decades, had been involved in American politics at

the highest level. But he had been the black sheep of the family, the one who had never been

expected to amount to anything.

He had been an alcoholic. He had admitted to having been an alcoholic. What he never

admitted to was an incident when he had been drunk, in charge of a car, and he had run over and

killed somebody. Luckily it had not been anybody important. The rumours had been that he had

been got off by his dad. Of course, they had only been rumours, and it would be libellous to

suggest anything else. It was said that it was only because his dad had been a politician that he

had become President. This was not true. The President's dad had not had anything to do with it.No, his son had been a deal-maker, and that was what had got him his term in office. He had

made a deal, almost seven years ago, a deal that had cost him big time, but which had ensured

that he would become President. And now, the President wanted out of the deal; or at least an

extension on the time period. He wanted seven more years.

He waited patiently, alone, in the Oval Office. He knew that he would be having a visitor very

shortly. He was counting on it. He had made, and broken, deals across the world. This was justanother deal to be made, another deal to be broken. He saw no reason why he could not win here,

as he had won everywhere else, for the last seven years.

His visitor did not use the door. There were no doors that could bar him, no entrances except

one. The President did not even realise that he was no longer alone until the shadow fell across

his desk.

"You've come." the President said. "You're early.""I can wait." the visitor said. "I've waited for seven years. A little longer only builds the

anticipation. I have been looking forward to this, and I intend to enjoy it."

"I was hoping that you would come early." the President said. "I would like to have a word with

you."

"So speak." the visitor said. "You have ten minutes before I claim what is mine."

"Well, that is what I want to you talk about." said the President. "I was wondering if I could

have an extension on the time period. Seven years isn't really all that long, is it?"

"You seemed happy enough with the time period when you signed your name on the contract,

those near-seven years ago." the visitor said. "If I remember rightly, you were more than happy

with the arrangement. I believe that it was you who contacted me, rather than the other way

around. By the way, you have nine minutes and forty seconds left."

"Well, I am sure that we could come to some mutually beneficial arrangement." the President

said. "There must be something that you want, or something that I can do for you."

"Yes." said the visitor. "I want your soul. Seven years of success, including ruling the world, in

exchange for one rather grubby soul. It is my opinion that you easily got the best part of the deal.

And have I not followed through? Are you not the most powerful person on the face of the Earth?

Is there any person on the planet who commands as much might as you do?"

- 7 -


8/22


"Yes, but it's only for another ten minutes!" said the President, urgent now. "What am I

supposed to do in ten minutes time? Pray?"

"Too late for praying now." the visitor said. "And, to be precise, it is not ten minutes, but now

only nine minutes and three seconds that you have left. What could you do in nine minutes? Well,

you could boil a couple of eggs, for a start. Or you could start a war, set the missiles flying. Imean, you are the President, and you could do that if you want."

"Is that it?" said the President. "Is that what you want? A war? I'll start one tonight, if you'll justgive me another seven years."

"Hm...no." said the visitor. "Anyway, you never finished the ones that you started earlier.

Sloppy, that. Not that it really bothers me, either way, of course. And, let's face it, as I'm supposed

to lose the Apocalypse, would you be in a hurry to start a war that you can't win? Hm, considering

your recent performance, let's forget that question, shall we?"

"But doesn't war serve your ends?" asked the President, not wanting to move on from any

thought that could possibly get him out of his current situation.

"Yes...and no." the visitor said.

"What the Hell do you mean, yes and no? Either it does or it doesn't." the President said.

"Oh, I enjoy seeing the suffering of people in a war torn country, don't get me wrong." the

visitor said. "I'm all in favour of needless suffering. But then there's the recruitment problem, you

see. Oh, I see that you don't. Very well, I'll explain it to you in words that you can understand.During wars, people get killed. Bad guys go downstairs, good guys go upstairs. Got that? Good.

Now, if in a war, more good people get killed than bad people, then I am making a net loss as far

as foot soldiers go. As the opposition starts out with more troops anyway, you can see where my

problem is. That is, of course, presuming that the big event ever kicks off. I would just as sooncontinue as we're going along. Mankind is fun. You are far more inventive in your tortures and

punishments than most of my devils could ever hope to be. So you see, war is not always, for my

side, the bed of thorns that people make it out to be."

"My heart bleeds." said the President.

"I would watch what you are saying." said the visitor, sternly. "After all, it is you who want an

extension on the contract, not me; and you only have seven minutes and twenty two seconds left."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." said the President. "Look, can we get back to the matter at hand? In seven

minutes and twenty two seconds...""Seven minutes and thirteen seconds now."

"...you are going to claim my soul, and there must be some way that I can get out of this." the

President continued.

"Contract was perfectly fair and above board." the visitor said. "You signed it of your own free

will. I don't see how we have a problem here."

"What about if I get somebody to take my place?" the President asked, desperately. "Can't youtake them instead, and let me off the hook?"

"Hm?" the visitor said, raising an eyebrow.

"What about Donald? What about if I get him to go in my place?"

"Oh, please." the visitor said, sardonically. "Do you think that, unless he has some miraculousSaul of Tarsus-like conversion, that he is going anywhere but downstairs anyway?"

"What about my daughters?" the President asked."Which one?"

"Both of them, if you'll let me go." the President pleaded. "You can have both of them."

"My, but you are such a nice member of your species." the visitor said. "But no, I am afraid that

I will have to forgo them. You see, that would be a breach of contract on my part, and I would be

reneging on the deal. All three of you would be off the hook, and we can't have that, can we? No,

I've learnt the hard way on deals like that. It has to be you, or nobody, I'm afraid. By the way, you

have five minutes and fifty seconds left."

"I wish that you would stop counting down like that." said the President. "It's very annoying."

- 8 -


9/22


"But I am enjoying it so much. It builds up the anticipation, you see. And I believe that it is

increasing your sense of fear. I do like to see fear on my victims before I claim them. Five

minutes and thirty five seconds left."

"What is it that you want?" the President asked. "There must be something that you want,

something that you need. What about followers?""Followers?" asked the visitor.

"I'll found churches in your name. I'll get people to worship you, if that's what you want.""What makes you think that people have to use my name to worship me, or that people would

follow your scheme anyway?" said the visitor. "There is a certain saying, concerning roads to

Hell and good intentions. Do you really think that all those churches that go around saying how

wonderful the death sentence is, how evil all other religions are, how we should start burning

books and bulldozing CDs, are doing anything other than my work in the long run? The fact that

they think that they are serving upstairs is a wonderful irony, is it not? So you see, I don't really

need followers. But I am open to suggestions as to what else you could do for me. By the way,

you have four minutes and fifty two seconds left."

"What about money?" the President asked.

"Money? I can have as much money as I want. Am I not the person who can grant money and

power to anybody I wish?" the visitor said. "You will have to offer me something better than that,

I am afraid. And you have four minutes and forty seconds left.""Okay, sorry, bad choice, but there must be something that I can offer you, there must be some

thing that you desire, that it is within my ability to grant." the President said.

"Hm, let me think." the visitor said, drumming his fingers on the desk of the Oval Office. "Let

me thinkla di da, la di dawhat is it that you have that I wantI know that there was onethingla di da, la di danow what was it?"

The visitor was taking his time to think, deliberately stretching the time out. Eventually, the

President could wait no more.

"What is it? What is it that you want? Tell me!"

"What? Oh, I remember nowit was your soul. You have three minutes and fifty seconds left."

the visitor said.

"So that's it, is it?" the President asked.

"Oh, not quite." the visitor said. "You still have a full three minutes and three minutes and fortyone seconds left. Not quite time to boil an egg, I'm afraid, unless you like it runny, of course. You

wouldn't have time to eat it, anyway, now. You really should have gone for the egg when I first

came in. At least you would not be going downstairs on an empty stomach."

"How's it going to be?" the President asked.

"I beg your pardon?" the visitor said.

"How are you going to do it? How are you going to kill me?""Kill you? I'm not going to kill you. All that I'm going to do is to take your soul. Not that you're

using it, at the moment. The fact that your body is unable to survive without your soul is not my

concern."

"So people will find my body and think that I've died of natural causes?" the President asked."Not exactly." the visitor said. "I have made certain arrangements, you see. We can't have

history judging you as a decent President, can we? Not that that would have been very likely,would it? But we have to be certain. So it will appear that you have taken your own life. Blown

your brains out with one of your ever present handguns. Bits of skull splattered all over the walls

of the Oval Office. And a suicide note, of course, in your own hand, directly implicating you in

all those scandals that I've been protecting you from. The missing votes in Florida, the cyanide

spill in that river, selling arms to the Taliban in exchange for oil, downloading child porn off the

Internet.."

"Hey! I never did that last one! I mean, there's no proof on the others, either, and"

"And people will believe what you want them to believe, if you keep telling them long and hard

- 9 -


10/22


enough." the visitor said. "You realised that early on yourself. Where exactly are all those

Weapons of Mass Destruction in that benighted country in the Middle East, anyway? You have

two minutes and thirteen seconds left."

"Why, though? Isn't it bad enough that I am going to Hell? Why destroy my reputation as

well?""Because I can." said the visitor. "And because I enjoy doing it. I have a reputation as the

Master of Lies to maintain, after all.""Look, I'm not trying to get out of the contract, I just want seven more years! I'll do whatever

you want! I'll make things really nasty for people; just don't take me! I'm not ready yet." said the

President.

"Really nasty for people, will you? I must admit, the idea had a certain charm." said the visitor.

"For a start, you could cut welfare for poor people, to make their lives just that little bit harder.

No, you've already done that, haven't you? Or you could pull out of the Kyoto agreement, so that

global warming continues unabated. No, I'm sorry, you've already done that too. You could

reward avarice, by massive tax cuts to the richest people in America. No, let me guess, you've

already done that too. You could pull out of germ warfare protocols; if you had not already done

that too. We like our microbes, don't we? Or you could start proposing increasing your nuclear

arsenal, while at the same time pulling out of your silly little test ban treaties. If you had not

already done so. You could lock suspects up without trial, and deny them those pointless rightsthat you humans insist upon; you could increase pollution; you could increase gun ownership, the

death sentence, and all lots of wonderful things: if you had not already done so, too. So you see,

Mr President, there's not really all that much left that you can do for me, is there. By the way, you

have only got forty nine seconds left.""Forty nine seconds?" said the President. "Look, I'm begging you, I'm down on my knees,

please, please, just give me a little more time."

"I like it when people debase themselves before me. Why didn't you just do that to begin with?

You could have saved yourself a lot of time and worry." said the visitor. "You said that you

wanted seven years? That was it, wasn't it? Do you still want those seven years?"

"Yes, yes, please!" said the President. "Just seven years! That's all I want."

"Okay, you've got them." said the visitor. "Let's shake on it." He proffered his hand towards the

President."What, really? Just like that?" the President said, getting up off his knees. He went to shake his

visitor's hand, but, at the last moment, the visitor pulled his hand away.

"What's going on?" the President said "You just said that I could have another seven years?"

"Yes, I know." the visitor said. "I lied. I do that sometimes. Time's up."

A single shot was heard to ring out from the Oval Office. By the time that the security personnel

arrived, there was no sign of the visitor, if he had ever even been there.

There Is A Shop

There is a shop:Sometimes it's there,

Sometimes it's not.It's always somewhere:

It's there, or here;

Sometimes it's far,

Sometimes it's near.

It's where it is,

Or needs to be,

This little shop

Of mystery.

- 10 -


11/22


Rain

It has rained all day,

The sky's a leaden grey,

Cars splash through puddles on the road,

Windscreen wipers flickering,

Pushing the tears away.

Trees shiver in the breeze,

Droplets clinging to their leaves,

Two lovers shelter beneath their boughs,

Hand in hand they watch the rain

From beneath the trees.

On little streams there float

Captured fag packet boats,

Careening along the gutters

Towards hungry, waiting drains

That aren't yet litter-choked.

On and on the downpour,

From low beach, to highest moor,

Washing the land clean and fresh and new.

It has rained all day,

I hope it rains some more.

Gardener

The gardener sits beside the flowers,He has been working there for hours.

His hands, that plant the bulbs,

Are worn down by time,

Are heavily lined,

His prints engrained with umber soil

And years of honest toil,

Planting hopes and future scents.

All that time that he has spent,

Working in his garden.

All the weeds that he has slain,

All the sunshine, all the rain,

Different flowers for different seasons;And for what reason?

Each year plants die,New ones must be bought,

New seedlings must be sought.

Who will look after his garden

When his time has passed,

When he has worked his last?

- 11 -


12/22


Another Winter

Winter:

A light snow frosts the hill tops

Ofglas slate old quarries

Abandoned years ago.

The snowmelt will join the riverAlready engorged by recent rain,

And it will burst it banks

On to the flood plain

Where new estates lie:

Red Lego brick houses.

Winter:

The sky is grey with scudding clouds

Driven by ill winds from the north,

From the hills of dead mines,

Where coal lies unclaimed

In hand hewn dark holesThat will never echo with human voices,

Nor claim their owners' lives again.

Winter:

In the valleys between the harsh hills

Where the wise women once spoke Welsh,

But only speak Coronation Street now,Where black bonnets once frightened the French,

But are now only found on the old Ford car

Abandoned wheelless on bricks.

Winter:

In the heartland, in the soul;

It calls me, I want to go.

Like

Like diamonds in water,

Like mercy in truth,

Like blood in veins,

Like grass in the rain,

Like joy in youth.Like love unexpected,

Like bricks without mortar,Like hope neglected,

Like the sun in the morn,

I see a new dawn.

- 12 -


13/22


By The Railway Line

Your hair is slick on your scalp,

Wet with sweat, or rain;

You stand by the railway line,

Watching the trains roar past,

Wondering what it will feel like.The drivers sound their horns at you,

But you don't have the courage yet.

The rain keeps pouring down,

Washing your tears away.

Little streams run beside the ballast.

It's time, you know;

You should go, stand in the four foot;

This is why you're here, after all.

You here the police car's siren call,

And it's too late,

It's been too late for a long time now.

Everybody Knows

Everybody knows, about you and him,

Of how you met, down at the gym,

You told your friends, and he told his,

This could be the one, this could be the biz.

You even like all the same things -

White wine spritzers, and Angel Delight,

Going out clubbing on a Saturday night -

And he's bought you a diamond ring.

Everybody knows, you told all your friends,

With telephone calls that never end,

Of how in love the two of you feel,

Unlike their affairs, this one's for real.

You two make a perfect pair;

Unlike the other couples you know -

Their relationship's have nowhere to go -

Everybody knows: and nobody cares.

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Winter Is Full Of Life

Winter is full of life,

Sleeping below the ground,

Below the snow,

Waiting to burst forth

In a riot of colour and splendour.Sleeping in hidden burrows

Below the ground,

Waiting to run around again,

With the onset of spring.


In snow-capped hedgerows

Small creatures survive

Huddled against the cold,

Waiting for the thaw,

Eternally hoping for spring.

And not all hide from ice and snow:Some merely shed their summer coats.


In ponds below the ice

Swim silver-scaled fish,

Unknowing of the cold.

The hearts of trees -

Their bark frozen still -

Beat with a seasonal pulse,

Knowing that however cold it gets,

That it will pass;

Spring will come.

Dead Dreamer

Within my dream I start to scream,

But I cannot waken;

My mouth forms words that go unheard,

Though my soul is shaken;

Silent I stay no words betray

The fear within my core;

There I will be, eternally,

For I shall wake no more.

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Estates

Little houses, by smog and smoke marked,

Clustered together, as if scared of the dark,

When youths run wild on the housing estate,

Strung out on drugs, and beer, and hate,

Kicking in doors, and nicking DVDs,Videos, CD players, and colour TVs,

Writing racist slogans on boarded up doors,

While crawling cars check out too-young whores

Under the amber light of piss-stained lamps,

Showing the youths beating up an old tramp,Around the corner from the last remaining shop,

Metal shutters better shields than errant cops,

'Packis go home' graffitied large,

Its target, an Indian, Amritaj,

Has lived there thirty years or more,

Getting up every day at half past four

For the morning tabloids that fuel the fearThat too many 'different' people are coming here;

And every afternoon the youths come in

For their cheap and nasty lager-filled tins;

Shaven-haired, and sullen, they pay for their ale,

These embittered, hopeless, and hope-free males;

And late on a night, when rioting palls,

And there's no tramp's head to use as a ball,

And no more spray can's for their racist graffiti,

They go round a mate's to watch his Sky TV.

Old School Desk

Old school desk, scored with a thousand names,

Dreams of trysts and lovers' games,

Inkblot doodles and roman numbers,

Random scratches, criss cross hatches,

The desk sits and quietly slumbers,And dreams of days of shouting boys,

Playing games with brand new toys;

Days of summer lost long ago,

Days that no one else still knows.

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Half-Voices

I hear half-voices

Like some half-broken radio

Tuned only to foreign stations

In languages that I can't understand

Filtered through a single wall.They tell me things

That I do not want to hear;

Things that fill me with fear,

So I turn away from the sounds,

But they remainOn the edge of hearing

Nagging away like some conscience

That I thought I had defeated

And that I cannot escape.I try to sleep,

But the voices remain

Somewhere within the madnessOf my brain.

I Am

I am love and I am hate,

I am chance and I am fate,

I am black and I am white,

I am day and I am white,

I am sun and I am rain,

I am meek and I am vain,

I am weak and I am strong,

I am right and I am wrong,

I am hot and I am cold,

I am young and I am old,

I am false and I am true,

I am me and I am you.

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Mentalby Adam John Dellicott

Sometimes I take the time to think

I sit alone and I just thinkI see so clear the time that's passed

yet still I cannot focuswas that real or just fantasy

or a load of hocus pocus?My memory is a jigsaw puzzle

one with a million pieces

yet still I sift with great patience

but my mind is full of creases

I wish I had a mental iron

to straighten out this mess

my head so cluttered, crammed and packed

yet one big emptiness.

Maybe I should forget the past

and settle for what's aheadyou can't get back what's gone anyway

so I'll live before I'm dead.

Text Poem 1

160 spaces/

nvr enuff to say/

wh@ u feel 2day/

the hidden faces/

th@ u nvr show/

the secret tears/the luvs & fears/

they'll nvr know/

& words run dry/

for now - goodbye

Rhyming Couplet #5

Something, some time, has got to give,

When you live to work, not work to live.

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September, 1752

It is Thursday, September the third, in the year of our Lord seventeenhundred and fifty two. The date agues me, and turns my stomach like badale, yet there can be no reason for this. But I awoke this morning with afeeling of foreboding in me, an emotion that I found both familiar and

strange. I retain a feeling of having woken to these fears many times before,yet I can recall them not. This is an absurdity beyond my comprehension.Today should be a day no different from any other that I have lived.

I have much to occupy my time with, this day. My shoes need cobbling, thetread on them having become somewhat threadbare in recent weeks. That oldrake Forbes has yet to settle his wager with me. The devil take him if themoney is not upcoming soon! A man should honour his debts. My manuscriptis finished, and needs to be delivered to the printers, now. When my newtreatise goes on sale, the income will be most welcome. I have no doubt butthat it will prove to be another success.

I observe from the window of my boarding house that the riots haveceased. My memory seems to fail me, for I cannot recall the reason for theriots in the first instance. Not that the uneducated dregs of humanity need

much excuse to rise up against the state, perchance, in these so called timesof reason. No doubt the affair was a matter of little esteem. Perhaps thehanging of some popular blackguard. No doubt there shall be more rioting inthe future, for some equally unimportant purpose. Yet a part of me wishesthat I could recall the causation of their lapsed fury. No matter, I am surethat I shall remember it hence.

I must depart now. My journal will continue anon.

The date is now Friday, September the fourth, in the year of our Lordseventeen hundred and fifty two. Events yesterday did not go as I hadintended. It seems that life exists to thwart my intentions and ambitions.Forbes, old rogue that he was, and regular of the bawdy houses for milesaround, has lived his life too full, it transpires. The pox has taken him, his

debt to me still not settled. I venture that I shall never see those guineasagain, a tidy sum of money to one in my circumstances. If I had not knownhim to be such an inveterately disorganised scoundrel, I would havesuspected that he had arranged his death thus merely to spite me.

The printers claim that I still owe them monies for the production of my lasttreatise " Being On The Inspiration To Fellow Christians By The Examples SetBy The Irish Saints " . These printers are base and foolish men, to set

pecuniary standards before the production of pamphlets that are onlydesigned to uplift and enlighten mankind. I explained to them that paymentwould have been forthcoming upon selling my new work " A Treatise On TheHierarchy Of The Heavenly Host ; And How The Kingdom Of Britain MirrorsThe Kingdom Of God." , but they were unwilling to venture to cover mycosts. My only hope is to return in days future, and dissuade them from a

course of action that could prove ruinous to my financial affairs.I had more luck with the cobblers. They, impressed by my status as an

erudite scholar, are proceeding with the resoling of my shoes. A man's statusis often judged by the clothes that he wears. It would not be good for me tobe seen wearing shoes so worn at the heel..

I had all but forgotten the riotous behaviour that had caused me so muchconsternation at the time, until I put quill to paper this night, when the priorentry in my journal reminded me. Yet my memory, which I believe to bemost precise, cannot expedite my thinking on either the cause or concern of

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the rioting, nor why such violent actions should suddenly cease. My feeling ofunnamed and unnatural dread has increased. There is no logic to this! Agrown man should be the master of his own mind, and should not be subjectto ignorant, childish fears of the unknown like some savage from a SouthSeas isle.

Today is Saturday, September the fifth, in the year of our Lord seventeen hundredand fifty two. Chance was smiling on me today, and not afore time. I madecase with the executors of the will of old Forbes, concerning the settlement ofcertain dues owed to me, and they agreed to give the matter all dueconsideration. I shall celebrate this success tonight with a small libation.Perchance when I have spoken to the printers, and convinced them that Ishall soon be a gentleman of means again, they will not be so retrograde inthe publication of my works.

Yet, for all my success today, I am unable to dispel the feeling thatsomething is wrong, that there is something that I have overlooked. O foolishmortal! Are you so unsure of your own worth as to challenge good luck andsuccess when it attempts to come your way? I must banish such ill feelingsto where they belong, and have no more doubts about my purpose.

Today is Sunday, September the sixth, in the year of our Lord seventeenhundred and fifty two. I fear that my libations may have proved to havebeen somewhat excessive last night, as more than a couple of looks werecast askance towards my dishevelled appearance in church today. The devilhammers an anvil inside my head to punish me for my sins. Woe is me! I canwrite no more today.

Today is Monday, September the seventh, in the year of our Lord seventeenhundred and fifty two. I have made a full recovery from the illness that

plagued me on the Sabbath. My English yeoman breeding, my health andvigour, has allowed me to cast off such unnatural and devil-sent ailments. Yeta different affliction, equally unnatural, doth assail me. I have a feeling of

entrapment, a base fear that I cannot quell. I have never been subject tosuch a persistent emotion, not during all my years living in London. Thespirits that I consumed this last Saturday evening brought but temporary

panacea from this unknown phobia. Yet in all other matters I am well - Ishall be even better when I have recovered those guineas from the estate ofForbes. Were I not an educated man, I might suspect possession - but wehave consigned all such superstitious fancies and fallacies to the dark ages ofmankind. The light of reason shines now, and must perforce banish all suchdark imaginings.

My quill pauses at the inkwell. I felt that those words were over familiar tome, as if I have written them a hundred times before. I am no doubt familiarwith the phrase from some great literary source, although no title suggestsitself to my questing mind. I must think more upon this anon.

Today is Tuesday, September the eighth, in the year of our Lord seventeen

hundred and fifty two. The streets of London have smelled particularly offensivefor the last couple of days. I had thought I had become inured to the ordureafter my many years in England's greatest city, yet I found myself constantlyholding a scented kerchief before my nose. The foul and noxious odourappears to be on the increase. I cannot believe that I have suddenly becomemore susceptible to it. The air is still, like a day in high summer, eventhough it is early September. There seems to be a strange tension to theatmosphere. I am sure that I am not the only person to have noticed this.

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People whom I accost are far more bellicose than normal, even for Londoners.I fear a return to the rioting, the cause of which still escapes me. Perhaps itwas something in the stink, after all..

I must purchase more ink for my well, it would suffice naught to run dry.Yet I cannot recall the last instance that I needed to buy any. I am certainthat it must have been a long time ago, yet I still have enough for my work,

for the next few days at least. An unimpoverishable ink-pot would indeed bea marvel worth writing about !My latest treatise is at the printers today; but they have only agreed on a

limited production, until all their monetary concerns have been resolved in amanner to their liking. Sales of this pamphlet will at least allow me tocommence work upon my next opus. I conceive that it shall be called " ALearned Treatise Upon The Relationship Between Man And His Maker. " I amcertain that this work will prove to be at least as successful as my otherlearned treatises upon Christendom. I pride myself on being no vain purveyorof cheap leaflets, like many charlatans who I glimpse upon the streets of thisgreat nation's capital.

Today is Wednesday, September the ninth, in the year of our Lord

seventeen hundred and fifty two.A pox on Forbes and all his works ! The executors of his will now claimthat they can find no evidence of any monies owed to me, nor any indicationthat he intended to bequeath any such funds to me in his testament ! Thisis an intolerable nuisance ! Do these people not understand that we hadentered into a gentleman's agreement, concerning the three guineas owing tome from a wager? A gentleman's agreement is a bond, one that should behonoured, even after death. I am sure, that had our situations been reversed,God forbid, that the usurious rogue Forbes would have made every effort toredeem any monies owed to him. I must concentrate my efforts to persuadethese people of the validity of my claim upon his estate.

I find myself looking forward with some trepidation to the thirteenth ofSeptember, as if that date has some special significance for my affairs. Icannot recall making any especial arrangements for that day. For somereason, I believed that the thirteenth was to be a Wednesday - which isabsurd, as simple arithmetic shows that it must be a Sunday. I cannotaccount for this mental discrepancy. Perhaps some ailment does assail meafter all. But I have no intention of visiting a physician. The only worthwhileones charge extortionate fees, far too exorbitant for such a humble servant ofGod as myself.

Today is Thursday September the tenth, in the year of our Lord seventeenhundred and fifty two. The date is very important to me now, though I knownot why. When I think of the date, I am reminded of the rioters, although Icannot comprehend why a date could cause such mayhem or disturbance. This

problem seems insoluble.

Last evening I found myself in a public house again, and again I exceededmy tolerance for spirits. Devils would be a better description than spirits forthe foul substances that I quaffed. Yet it was only when I staggered back tomy boarding house that I felt free from the creeping fear that has grippedme for the past year or so, this feeling that something is terribly wrong. Inmy mind, I feel that it is connected with the rioting that suddenly ceased,and with my trepidation concerning the thirteenth of September. No doubtGod shall reveal all to me upon that date, and my fears shall prove to havebeen base and groundless. Perhaps it is still a lingering phobia of the numberthirteen.

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Today is Friday, the eleventh of September, in the year of our Lordseventeen hundred and fifty two. My feeling of foreboding is all butoverwhelming, and I have become convinced that it is, in some way,connected with that date. I wonder of the future, and what lies in store forme. I fear that a part of me already knows what the answer is, somewhere

within my eternal spirit. I know that the rioting and disturbances areconnected with that date, but I cannot discover any soul willing to conversewith me concerning that matter. They all regard me with fear in their eyes,as if I have condemned them to everlasting damnation. I wonder if I possessthe same fear within my own eyes as I consider the approaching days. Iwonder if the rioting will start again when the thirteenth of September hascome and gone.

I remember some decree, some law enacted that the mobs were rebellingagainst. I cannot recall what that law was. No doubt some ill-foundedconsideration of Parliament, for it to have caused such uproar. I blame HenryPelham, he is only a shadow of the Sir Robert Walpole. One would havehoped that his most noble and Royal Highness, our good king George theSecond, had been advised not to put his name to such a law, whatever it

was. I shall write more on this anon, when my elusive remembrances return.

Today is Saturday, September the twelfth, in the year of our Lord seventeenhundred and fifty two. I feel as though I can see a gallows before me. Mymeeting with destiny, with knowledge of the true state of my situation, willoccur on the morrow. Of that fact I am now convinced. Fear prevents mefrom writing more. All other considerations - my shoes, my worthless andinane pamphleteering, my debt from Forbes, seem immaterial to me now.

Today is Sunday, the thirteenth day of September, in the year of our Lordseventeen hundred and fifty two. For some reason, I kept wishing to write thatthe day was Wednesday. Several times my quill went to write that day'sdate, and managed to pause, before inscribing the correct date. I checked the

previous day's entry, and it was indeed Saturday. So, pray tell, why am I soconvinced that tomorrow is Thursday the fourteenth of September ? Such athing cannot be. Such a thing must not be. And why is it, that when I makea consideration of the morrow, that it seems a fiction of which I can scarcebelieve ?

My inkwell is almost dry, yet there is little else to write. I do not think thatit shall be exhausted.

I go for a stroll on the streets. They are strangely calm, as before athunderstorm. No Christian soul is willing to speak with me, nor do theyconverse with each other. They are all waiting. I return to my boardinghouse, to wait by myself.

Time is running out. I do not need to regard any clock to know that. I sithere waiting for the end, wondering if it will come. I remember everything

now, and know my situation to be impossible. the riots were over the lostdays. Eleven days, lost to man and God. Eleven days of our lives, that I hadbeen determined not to lose. I remember the anger, and the consternation. Itbehoves me no good now. Our lives should have gone straight fromSeptember the second to September the fourteenth. Yet, quite clearly, minehas not. I have become trapped in the days that never were. Is this myPurgatory ? My punishment for mortal vanity and for my refusal to acceptchange ? Am I doomed to write my journal forever, waiting for a Thursdaythat shall never come ?

I look at the clock. It is almost midnight now. I will put down my quill, and

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wait.

THE END

Credits : All stories & poems in this issue are 2003 Philip Drew, apart from the poem 'Mental'

which is 2003 Adam John Dellicott.

kryptophilia 5

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