Monthly Archives: December 2009

Bhishma’s Comedown

yeah, yeah. I know it is Madhubani, not Bhishma in the picture.

I also know that this isn’t what was promised. It’s just a birthday present that fell out of my hands. You will cope, I promise. Benjamin

There was an in-between place behind the entrance to the library, and it was here that Jonny found himself a week before his twenty-ninth birthday. Something was not right, he thought. There was the sound of a pen being worked across dry, uneven papers.

He stepped seven times on the thinning carpet, and each footfall felt tiny mycorrizic tendrils, stretching roots and vegetable matter lattice beneath them. The plants pushed the soles of Jonny’s feet upwards, before popping and crackling seed pods outwards, coughing miniature flowers and fungal spores into the air. Within seconds, they had died; hardened, petrified, changed to resemble old, old coral, washed up on an estuary somewhere.

The in-between place was mostly white. There were sounds that moved on the inside, forgotten voices of dogs, larvae, men and women he used to be, the creakings of bodies he once possessed. The walls of the in-between place were coated in a salt that bled a blue-ish cloud of ink when bruised by his touch. River deltas of colour dripped from his fingers as they brushed their way across the surface.

A man walked slowly outwards, from between the space that separated here from there, and stood directly in front of Jonny. “There is a elephant that bears the name of my son”, he said. “He shall see his own skull cracked like knucklebones, and my people will watch me chose to fall down, my ankles gripped by the soil itself.”

Jonny looked up. “No.” he said.

The water beneath them fed the leaves that curled between Jonny’s toes. The water was drying, fast.

It was his birthday, already.

a report

Those of you who know me know how incredibly busy I am here in Hungary. I need to write some fiction; some real, lengthy, labrynthine mathematical mundanities… I haven’t been able to produce much apart from these petty spirical little poems I occasionally post on here since finishing ‘Driftwood’. Please have some patience with me, and believe me when I say some stories are coming – I can feel them amassing ever so slowly at the base of my neck, but they are still embryonic, cirrus little things. Next week, next week.



He looks up and dislocates a gazing bird, now

Some fairness, a sickening gauze falls down

Suggesting he really did miss the haze, the rocks,

The sooty terns that winterly nested;

Folded in the battered face.

„Go back to the sea”, they say.

„Go find the waders, their

Cotton sweaters thick with weeds

And lipid slips, trips old oars…”



„Draw the blinds and blow your brains, kid,

Do it, like you did back in ’04”