Libertines-de Message Board: contribute

Worse Than The Roach

Chaka
dumb racists
carob bars(substitute chocolate)
student loans
mullet hair styles(or moulet if ya posh)
trance music
Ali
boiled okra
huge overfed pigeons aka rats of the sky
Big W pants
cold toes
Nathan
rave demons(loud cars and shit music)
rugby
wastrels
Annie the musical
Breston market
Slim
cute flakers
the Black Eyed Peas
Dairyland Mint Chocolate Chip
being tag-team farted on
leaving snorwich
2 pence coins

Naa
ostriches
‘I hate yous’ disguised as ‘I love yous’
orange
assumptions
clowns
Alex
hangovers
waiters who try too hard
sheep shoppers
England flags
UEA registry
Brasha
paying for books
paying for transportation
paying for food
paying for happiness
paying for condoms
paying for health
paying for alcohol
paying for illegal substances
paying for medicine
paying for top up cards
paying for water that lacks little white bits
paying for shit vacations outside of Britain where everyone is British (say goodbye…to albufeira)

Norwich Series… (i-v)

i

After Adam, came JC,
Born nineteen eighty three
I grew up in Eden, old Costessey
Now tracing my family tapestry
Inside the old walls of Norwich city

Red brick blood flows
in the roots of my family tree
resurrecting imagery from two decades of memories
Like bedlam school bus journeys
Or in 1990 when four family
took rest in the old souls soil
of the cemetery

Concoctions of twisted thoughts
Manipulating thought patterns into the perverse.
Anger welling up and then ebbing away into self inflicted pain.
Mesmerised by the possibilities of you and I

Part of me died and was reborn to be crushed in two.
Hectic ambitions and a naive mind confused me into relaying honestly.
When in reality all you deserved were loose lips and watchful eyes
Without the consequence of emotion.

I toned down, heart trussed up and hardened from too much cooking
Lay dizzy and sensitised to the male world.
No pretence now, I state the obviousness of my existence
Lonesome perhaps, but bleeding flesh real.
Pain better than the empty dreams and desires of a young girl’s heart.

Grow up Sugar!

Me
Here snatching at threads, trying to knot them together
Watching some break at the clumsiness of my feeble hands.
I will hold tightly…hope that my, is not in vain.
Inconvenienced by lack of rapport
And unreliable circumstances.
Strain with threads being pulled slowly out of reach
Tearing skin, as I can no longer.
___________________________________

My soul hides behind shadows
Maybe not joining in has its own reward, for allowing safety to be assumed.
I watch others evolve
From sidelines, where I can yell encouragement
Never being seen, as not fully taking part.
I can smile in my safety
U-live
I-watch
U-hurt
I-safe
Good.
But sometimes watching loses its lustre
And the flatness of living chokes me
If I join you…maybe.

ii

Time is the only commodity
New wheels always end up dirty
As I skate outside the library
like the new Cambridge homeless moved to Norwich
I’m moved on by security
All but a few humans’ own delusions
To have clarity is to be an avatar
__________________________________

Sounds like
You
Sounds like
Way------------ves
Waves
Wayvesssss
I wanna live in my poems
And hold you hold hold hold hold hold hold on to you
I hold you and miss you at the same time
Knowing that too quickly you’ll be far away

Sounds like my phone
I answer it in a funny voice and hope
For your

Laughter

Sounds like a beautiful word, doesn’t it?
Implies the sweetest
Sounds like ice skating
See me skate toward you
Watch you almost fall
I gotcha!
Sounds like champagne slipping from your tongue into my throat
You’re it! Sounds like running. I chase. I lose my breath. You let me catch you anyway
Sounds like sand on our funny soles - my raptor toes, your frog feet
Sounds like, you know, oh you know, you know you know
That way you moan my name and sounds like this tear encrusted life is finally breaking into something sweet only when you are with me

Sounds like a poem I never thought I’d write
Sounds like
Sounds like the empty seat next to me on the BART train – or the loneliness of showering
by myself – or my simple need to tickle you

Sounds like the flavor of your favorite Jelly Belly jelly bean
Everything.
It sounds like this when you say you love me

scars

stop see
love,
through
on on on
the feel of it

side by side
your on my side
kiss
lift
when
love, you see my hand on your scar, left right
on your skin
that skin

my life
runs
I run my breath
on your skin to your skin cut to your sky swim in me in me you stay with me in you stay then
be with me be with
all i have
with all i don’t
with all i want
with all i
touch
i just

touch

you and all the scars
love

(untitled)
I lay on my back and wait for the ceiling to collapse
Under the weight
Of you
How I wish I were the conquerer
Stomping out your opposition
With fascist chic
Would you follow me
If I said you were the ultimate
Problem?
World domination has never been my goal
But I wish I would have fought a little
Harder
For a place to call mine

Naa Norley

Strange Fruit

If this is the way it must be
I will lay face up on red
Fertilized earth
And paint a tearless legacy
On tea leaves
For my children to read
While the night is still and
Smokeless
They will know me

iii

My first school was joined to an abattoir
Fences didn’t separate the childs play
from pig squeals that mixed in that air
Back when this poet’s portrait had blond hair

My grandfather Victor
rebuilt the cathedral spire
A Flint Napper Old labourer
Home guard in the war
When the sky was torn
And hands held ration scores
_______________________________

Pressure cooker
goodbye looming on the horizon
my shoes are dirty and my smile is smudged,
i might miss the dark mornings
and rainy afternoons
crowded buses smelling like wet dog

hold my hand, rub my shoulder,
take another shot and let reality fade
alcoholism is where truth sets in
only blurry and easier to stomach, so
let me touch your warm hands
i’ll pretend you want more and i
less, i won’t miss
anything, or wish to return

for time to stretch us out
to speak truth in our sober moments
instead of aimless
shit.
___________________________

Minutes in a day stand out,
aborted memory makes wet circles
to ease breathing, ease regret

I slide gently into the swollen bowl belly
of left-behinds, trinkets of lost worth
I will keep one under my tongue
Brassy bitterness flooding my senses

Milky orbs spotted with night
roll restlessly each morning;
I want to blink and bathe them
in your sweet

Day or dream we could be
the pulse beneath
limp sighs; respiration
need, not want
dance with parted hands
empty lips

The Football Factory.

Another bandy night for the riotous students outside from the dirt-swept courtyard below my window-sill to Prince-of-Wales road where the single, and struggling convene to drink and dance and fight together with their ready hands deep in their pockets. On the way to the cinema UCI myself and my flatmate wandered quickly uphill to Maddermarket to Tescos so I could fill my cavernous stomach with half-decent ( and half portioned) ready pasta and last the long down-walk on princes without buying any takeaway food. -My flatmate lapping up the English way of it bought once recently some dodgy kebab only to return homeward later and throw the lot back down the toilet, and would not appreciate going back in.
Yet he would be seeing something of even grimier proportions in Nick Loves new attempt of making words pictures in the Football Factory, based uncentredly on John Kings proved book. I’m reading said novel now it resting on the bed spine broken page lost, and I like it. I saw the film poster first off and liked the thought of finally having a decent hack at this side of British culture so riddled in the local mind with ignorance and bias. Its fiction written about the Chelsea ‘firm’ more of a portrait of their way of life and radical justification of what they do. The book runs around episodic chapters momenting a stage in lives of the protagonists, often entitled of the match they will be attending.
The film is not the book however instead has chopped and lineated the plot just like in the Trainspotting adaptation. This is not the only connection King shares with Irvine Welsh, the cover of my Football Factory is quote inscribed by him as of saying ‘The best book I’ve read about football and working-class culture in Britain. Buy, steal or borrow a copy now.’ This is obviously a convenient selling ploy at once relating the content of the book to a famous successful (slightly similar) author and sublimates the ‘buy… now,’ which always helps.
The thing I have liked in Welsh’s writing is how he manages to suggest more than he writes in a finite medium which in flawed and off-putting at times, and ask and answer important questions about the importance and method of social enquiry. In a study of ‘Birmingham Motorbike boys’ (the boys names were Bill-the-Boot, Percy, Sammy, Slim Jim and Bob) Paul Willis said that movement and confidence are the key to style amongst minority cultures to fit in with each other. King has portrayed this movement like Welsh with what reads as a very conversational, earthy style of writing, used to convey message not only in the story unfolding but the style and movement of the writing itself.
Since being in Norwich my flatmate has heard talk and joke of pikeies, townies, crusties, and hooligans, seeing only what goes on in Riverside and Prince-of Wales with the odd ruck to dodge. He seemed excited and interested by the language and reference musics the likes of Libertines, Jam, Streets, Buzzcocks, Primal Scream- all relevant social bands. I tried to figure what I thought and told him about riots and strikes and defining yourself in a repressive situation by being loyal at expense and opposition.
Out of breath and jumping on the idea of a riot being celebration-ritual-like I remember the question lingers in the air as the dust settles after a confrontation with the horrors near the end of the film ‘was it all worth it’ and worry seeps in the final cranny when we hear ‘course it fucking was.’ The opposition that the hooligans in this film pose is extreme as they are racist, chauvinist, sexist, homophobic basically universally hostile to all but their own. These men are said to be pissed off that the society they live in labels them as ‘shit,’ and they’re sick of it… Thus they ‘channel’ all of the excess energy into ‘kicking fuck’ out of people at the football. The sad point in both book and film is this weak construction of character unengaged and generic, stereotypes that make hooligans seem nothing more or less, eradicating sympathy.

Casting Off

When i feel like a lazy person its like everything i do is just part and parcel of a lazy current from tv reading and watching clogging in my blood. Sat on my uneventful bed, spread all on the floor and a pillow over the back inching away, smoking a ciggy rolled with the air of precision that will epitomise this day, its bright and fresh cold and i'm going to work as i need to...
then leaving the three flights and two slammed doors walking through the dust and the gravel looking up squinted and wave to the cleaner in blue says 'morning' looking at me and smoking a strait on her break. and i'm walking on concrete above a user-carpark- an urban walkway purgatory between residencies put there by distant designers. well you can't tell or touch what isn't there but maybe yet when you don't really know but can imagine that theres at least someone directly below you and more than many passing in the wind above-
so i try not to stamp too hard with my long feet stepping...
and i hold my head up gazing alert and pensive so somehow they know i'm there...

and i know i see a sturdy looking dishevelled man walking a push-bike strapped with long planks of processed softwood timber, just another face in the crowd passing by each other drying on a slow-spin-
i envision the silent code of cosmopolitan living where all people are given space to burn bridges and carve up trees that the greater good admonishes generally- but grants when considered of personal need, so in order to get on as it is...

The old man stepped off the train and walked out the station into the crumbling Great Yarmouth welcome of best sea-side resort and whatever, resenting the sun in its wonton glory which could have been more useful last summer. He walks the bridge not taking in anymore the used cars, caravans, and pavements that appear in his days as if he were on a stage of unchanging setting. Makes his way on the long road to the beach finishing a lucozade he bought from the station throwing the empty plastic bottle into a deep roadside puddle without hint of doing a wrong or lazy thing. He gets to the beach slowly ambles onto the sand and dumps the two wheeler by the sea-wall, preferring in his way to lug the timber on his own... He had lost his home six weeks ago choosing to live alone melancholy and rough on the streets blagging train rides around Norfolk and London being friendly and sympathetic with ticket collectors who never failed to let him journey without paying... He had found an old ruined wooden row boat under a pier on Yarmouth beach and decided he would fix it up and go sailing... He worked with his brother-in-law in Kings Lynn for a while to get the wood needed to restore his ship. Three days after i saw the old man fetching his wood at 6am he cast off into the sea, never to return...

and i wonder just how many of us are building their ships in a quiet off-hand, all the wayfarers longing for distant islands or a warm closed cell within a shell out of their control... and after all today has been mostly in the pursuit of safe monies and debt payment, so i slow down without suspicion heaps on me to listen a bit to a hard- knocked busker and a locked surprise in sound, a rant going-
"and i wonder why,
"these passers by,
"are so fucking miserable."
Bangkok Fiction

looking up along the street
i could see the dirty remnants
of another busy evening
more people blinded themselves
temporarily
by staring at the highlights
some others managed
to secure a nice or not so
nice, in their minds, girl
to have sex with
had gone back to their rooms
some with the luxury of
air conditioning, those
who couldn't afford it
go without again
and merge over their sweating
bodies
but i was sat on the steps
drinking spirits
outside the club restaurant
where the girls who my
friends, now departed, had
been seeing,
as far as i know
anyway, i was
with the girl
i had been
talking through to
a deaf local,
i suppose
there’s no other way to
explain properly
exactly why i was
doing so at all
did not really convince
even myself but then
again it had never
bothered me before
that much, but it
was different mainly
because i was in a
foreign country and
although the scapes had been
traversed on many separate
occasions by people
like me i think
thats due to the
decadent and spiritual
allure the place had
especially for travelers and
students, just like i was
at that point in my
life
i could see that i was
having an influence on
other peoples lives on
a very personal level
so i had to worry a
little more about the
implications of what i
bought or paid for
and where i went
and not particularly
what i said really
because other white english
people were there already
but i was just
looking up the street
drinking salty whisky
in plastic cups
hiding the bottle behind
our backs
that was us thinking
about the implications
of looking up the street
at the breeze passing people
tired and drunk
staring at the street lights

Ali Jones-Bey

The pressure was almost more than he could bear. His mind wandered back past the moment when she had first demanded her problems fixed. When they were children, hiding behind tall trees that graced the sidewalks in front of their home. They would wait for dad to come strolling in from the bus stop, then scramble to climb up so they could shout and jump out at him as he passed. This time, Ismene was closest, and with a whoop, she launched herself out of the tree at her father. Jamal heard a sharp crack as she jumped, and Ismene’s triumphant yell turned into a cry of surprise. Jamal’s father looked up in time to see Ismene, arms flailing, tumble sideways to the pavement. This was always the moment where Jamal would blink and shake his head, trying to banish the dull thud of flesh meeting concrete, the sudden silence from his sister, and his father’s strangled shout of horror. He rubbed his forehead and stood with a silent groan. After that, he became Ismene’s shadow. Everytime she needed something, he would be there. She never had to depend on anyone else; he became her self appointed guardian. And soon, she stopped looking to others for help. He was the one who knew all her weaknesses, how to help her past rough spots. Anytime he wondered if maybe he should let her do it on her own, he remembered her face, contorted with so much pain she couldn’t speak. The frenzy of calling for help, going to the hospital, his parent’s worry, had all faded from his memory years ago. But some nights he still awoke sweating, with Ismene’s silence ringing in his ears.
“Jamal! You listenin?”
“Yeah . . . didn’t I tell you I gotta think about it?”
“Well think fast. I got Chem in five minutes.” Jamal inhaled slowly, hoping to push his mind back to the present with fresh air.
“Aight, listen. I have a meeting with my professor at three. Will you be home at four?”
“Umhm.” She was inspecting her newly manicured nails, and with her head down, thick hair shading her face, she looked at least eight years younger than her current twenty. The tight line of his mouth softened, and he smiled. She glanced up, dark brown eyes meeting his, saw his decision, and grinned.
“Thanks, bro!” She threw her arms around him in a quick hug, and scurried off toward the Science building.
“I’m comin through at four! You better be there!” He shouted after her retreating back, and was rewarded with a wave and a loud,
“Don’t trip!” He rolled his eyes at her nonchalant response, his mind wandering back unbidden to the favor that she had asked. A simple thing really, help with an essay. Although she was the best chemist he knew, anything more than two hundred words that wasn’t about an experiment was always a struggle. He had a paper due the next day, but Ismenes always took more than a few hours, so his would have to wait. Probably until midnight. He reached up to massage his already cramping neck, and headed off in search of caffeine.

Jamal woke up being asked to leave.
“If you want to sleep, go home. This is not your bedroom.” Jamal focused bleary eyes on his favorite professor. Her mouth was compressed into a thin line, eyebrows drawn low over thunderous eyes. Not even bothering to answer, he gathered up his belongings and left. He had been up the entire night writing an essay on the similarities between Boccaccio and Chaucer, and was now drained of any lingering hints of scholastic awareness. He hadn’t even started until 2AM, because not only was Ismene a horrible writer, but a demanding perfectionist. At the moment, he couldn’t think of a more lethal combination. The door swung shut behind him, just as his phone began to screech loudly. A few students sitting quietly in the hallway tossed annoyed glances at him, but he ignored them, fingers scrambling madly through his backpack, dislodging folders and pens in his search.
“Yeah.”
“Jamal! Ogod ogod ogod ogod I just got in an accident but I’m okay can you call mommy don’t tell dad, it’s gonna go on my insurance, you have to help I dunno what Imma do!!” Her panicked words ran together shrilly and he moved the phone back from his ear as they reverberated painfully off his eardrum. Her voice seemed to echo throughout the hallway, and he glanced around, almost expecting to see her running toward him.
“Ismene.” He used what she always called his ‘Big Brother voice’, and he could hear her fighting for calm. “What happened?” He asked, trying to keep the fatigue out of his voice.
“Jamaal,” she whined, “I dunno what to do, it wasn’t my fault, the other car, it just came outta nowhere, daddy’s gonna kill me . . .” her voice trailed off and she began to cry, soft hiccuping sobs that Jamal knew would turn into hysterics if he didn’t put a stop to them. He opened his mouth to console her, to say all the right things, to keep her from going over the edge.
“Ismene.” There was a pause, he could hear her breathing, waiting for the words to come. “Ismene.” He tried again. His throat closed up. He swallowed.
“Jamal?” He could hear the edge in her voice, usually he was quicker in calming her down. He took another breath.
“Ismene—I . . . gotta go kid. You’ll be alright. Just call mom, I’m really busy right now.”
“Jamal?!” Her shock slammed into him, and he took an involuntary step backward. “I can’t call mommie! She’ll listen to you! She won’t hear me cause the last time she—“ Her voice cut off with a solid ‘click’ as Jamal snapped his phone shut.
Ismene screamed his name as she fell, the foliage of the tree shading her body from view. All Jamal saw were the arms of her orange sweater, flailing in what seemed an insane attempt at flying. The thud was softer this time, and as he leapt from his own perch in the tree, he could see her lying on the ground, looking at him. The silence was deafening.
“Um, ‘scuse me, is this yours?” Jamal jumped, grabbing his binder from the tall woman smiling at him, and turned, sprinting down the hallway. Pens and paper from his half zipped backpack left a haphazard trail of debris, and the woman called something after him, but her voice was lost in Ismene’s silence. He stumbled outside, dropping his empty backpack and leaned against one of the stone pillars outside the building. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead and palms, heart beating a wild staccato against his chest. His cell phone began to ring again, but he didn’t bother answering. It hit the marble steps and shattered upon impact.
The ringing stopped, and Jamal could feel the tension draining from his shoulders and neck. He swallowed, suddenly aware of his shocked audience.
“Jamal? You okay?” He blinked, and with great effort, pulled himself back under control. He knew Ismene was panicking; he needed to get to a phone.
“Jamal.” His professor approached, formerly angry eyes brimming with concern. She was juggling the contents of his backpack in her arms. Her voice was soft as she handed the pile of papers, folders and pens to him.
“I think you need to get some rest.” He nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“Get some rest.” He could see the forgiveness in her eyes, and let his lips twitch toward a smile.
“Yeah.” People began to shuffle away, except for a few close friends. He waved off their comments, and headed to the nearest payphone.
“Ismene? You okay?”

She was on the third floor, room 317. The last time he had been in St. Andrew’s hospital was a full ten years ago. Room 514. At thirteen, he was hysterical,
“I wanna be in there!” He pushed at his father’s arms, which encircled his shoulders, but they only held him more tightly.
“Shh. Calm down, Jamal.” His mother stepped over to where they were standing. The lines of her face were drawn tight, eyes red with suppressed worry. Her hands were warm as they brushed his tears away. “It’s gonna be okay, baby.” Her soft words melted into his bones, and he collapsed against his father, sobbing so hard it hurt. His mother stepped forward and hugged him also, so that he was completely surrounded. He could hear her murmuring softly,
“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” Eventually he sat, surrounded by his parents. He was sleeping, head resting on his fathers shoulder, when the doctor came. His father jumped up, jolting him awake, and they all rushed off to see Ismene. After that, he became Ismene’s protector, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt as safe as when he was sleeping in the hospital lobby.
He burst into room 317, stomach tight with worry.
“Isme—“ her name died on his lips as he saw her eyes. The deep brown he had come to know better than his own was fractured, with a soft bruise forming under her left eye. He flinched as she focused slowly, one hand held tight in her mothers, the other clenched around the sheet she was lying on. “I thought—“ his throat was too dry, his voice died with a rasp and he had to swallow before continuing. “I thought you said you were okay.”
“Didn’t want to worry you.” She smiled gently, and her mother smoothed the wild dark hair away from her face, and looked at Jamal.
“Hey babe.”
He realized suddenly that Ismene had not told her about the phone call.
“I’m sorry.” The words were barely a whisper, but she didn’t need to hear them.
“Me too.” His face was damp, and he wiped tears away before stepping forward to clasp her other hand. Ismene looked at him, and he could see the calm understanding and sorrow on her face. He kissed her forehead and sat down. Ismene didn’t speak, and neither did their mother. Silence enveloped the room, and Jamal could feel it seeping into his bones, soothing him. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the bed next to Ismene’s hand.
The next few days were filled with silence. Ismene came home the same day, and he took a short leave of absence from school. They began to spend their days together, sometimes in her room, sometimes going on walks, or just sitting in a nearby park.
They were sitting on a bench, watching the river, when Ismene spoke.
“I love rivers. Water is so beautiful, y’know? So calm.”
“I thought you hated water.” Jamal responded, eyebrows slightly raised at this new bit of information.
“Naw, it’s just I never watched it before. Here there’s just rivers and stuff. Nothin like— I wanna be by an ocean, y’know?” Her voice took on a tone of unfamiliar resolution, and Jamal pushed up from his relaxed slouch, turning to look her in the face. Her expression, for the first time in ten years, was unreadable. “I bought tickets. To California. Imma transfer at the end of the semester.” The sense of loss that had been following him like a gentle shadow for the past few days, suddenly coalesced into reality and punched him hard in the stomach.
“What?? Why? I thought you liked it here!”
“I do, but Jamal, you know the only reason I went to school in Philly is cause you were there.” She took his hand, and smiled playfully, “time for me to move on, babe.” The smile did not reach her eyes. Jamal reached out and enfolded her in a hug. She clung to him for a moment, arms clamped around his waist tightly.
“I’m gonna to miss you so much. Send me postcards.”
“Promise.” Ismene drew back, tears in her eyes, but her expression was firm. Jamal wiped at the tears already flowing freely down his face.
“I love you, bro.” Jamal smiled, and opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. “It’s okay. I know.” Ismene patted his hand gently. “I always did, y’know. I just never really thought about it.” She stood. “I gotta get to campus now. Have loads of work to do. See you.” She kissed him on the cheek, and straightened up, eyes meeting his once before she turned. The fractured look was still there, but pieced together with determination. Jamal was surprised by the strength he saw.
“Bye, Ismene.” It was barely a whisper, sent out to her departing back, but he knew she could hear him.

STAND UP

Stand up for who you are,
Stand up to be heard,
Even if you’re scared,
Stand up for every word,
Stand up for freedom of speech,
Stand up like Bob Marley teaches,
Stand up and show your true height,
Exercise your mind and write,
Stand up like anti-war protesters
Standing up is the start of the process,
Stand up to the shrinking of public space,
Why do you think god gave you a spine in the first place?
(Stand up)

iv

Inspired by the burning skyline
watching summer sheet lightning
I crack flints open in my mind
Saving every stitch of time

________________________________

Audra
I never thought that the wind could be so cold. I didn't even know that it screamed, when forced through a car window. Pete is driving. He smells of cigarettes, even with all the wind.
We've been moving fast since Charles shot father in the face, so we've had less time to look at the towns. There are no clouds in the sky. It is just a dome of rock-hard blue. The sun is an exception, it opens a crack in the blue and blazes through it. The towns around here seem so desolate. Maybe that's because the sun appears to be frying everything. The desert is barren, much more than I had been told, but fortunately the wind’s screams through the car window keep us cool.

Steve - we've had a report from a few officers, down south. Seems like they sighted the four that chopped the nigger. If you're looking for them, I can get you into contact.
Paul.
PS: You might want to know that there's a girl in her twenties with them. She's almost certainly the Carrington daughter, Audra. I guess they kidnapped her after they blew Carrington's face off. Watch out for her.

I asked Pete to stop for a second today, because I wanted to walk around a bit and stretch my legs. We pass every day in the car, it's beginning to feel like a coffin. Pete was irritated and he began braying about the fact that the police are after us and that there is no time to waste. Charles entered the conversation and convinced Pete to stop the car for a second. Then he walked around a bit with me. I like Charles, even though he scared me at first. After all, he was the one to shoot father. He's more gentle than the others, however, and nicer than father was. He's the only one who still hasn't yelled at me or hit me. He even protected me, once, when I began screaming and William wanted to beat me. If it weren't for him, I don't think I'd have been allowed to keep my diary.
The fresh air, here, is overwhelming. It fills your lungs like water would do; I think I could drown here. It's different from the stuffy air in my room, more refreshing. Everything seems to be gleaming, though; the sun is like a hammer, and my eyes aren't used to it. I'm also getting skin-burnt. I was used to dark, comfortable rooms. Why are these boys bringing me in these places?

Steve - news? Cause we're having some work over here, you know, it wouldn't be bad if you could get back and lend a hand.
Paul.

Today William shot the black attendant at the petrol station, and said that the price of petrol was not as high as everybody kept saying: A full replenishment had only cost him a few cents - the equivalent of the price of a bullet. Kevin said that this was "authentic black humour", and everybody laughed.
I'm not sure I understand why they enjoy shooting black people. Father said that blacks were dirty and had to be avoided, but he was a decent person and he didn't go around shooting them. Me, I just don't like to hear them scream, when they die. Kevin's the one who enjoys this the most, as I gathered.
How I hate Kevin. He is fat and greasy, and is always sweating. His armpits imbue the whole car with their stench whenever we keep the windows closed, and I hate the way he has shaved his hair. If you aren't bald, what's the point of trying to look like it, I wonder. I also hate the way he looks at me, the way he wheezes and the way his sweaty, sausage-like fingers feel on my skin when he touches me. He is a nauseating person, and I hate and loathe him.
I wish I had known earlier that I was going to be kidnapped. I could have brought something with me. It feels like ages since I last changed my clothes.

Steve - what the hell are you doing down there? These guys keep mauling niggers everywhere they go, and you still haven't caught them?! The people up town were really screaming their heads off yesterday, after the kid was killed. Either you get your hands on them soon, or you're out of there. Just friendly advice.
Paul.

How long is it that we've been on the move? How long since I left my father and mother's house? I can't remember. I've lost track of time. At home I had a wonderful calendar and all, but here I only know that a day has passed when the sun dies out.
Perhaps I write precisely to keep track of time. I had noticed its tendency to fly away, in the past, but I hadn't thought it to be very important. Days were always the same, anyway. It's surprising how radically things can change. Perhaps, if I write, my feelings will not evaporate, like they have always done in the past. Perhaps if I write now, then what I felt will not be lost. Why else would I feel this need to write, otherwise?
I was scared of father, at home, but now that Charles has shot him, I almost miss him. Although I was afraid of him, he also used to give me a strange sense of security, which I don't think I feel any longer. Not with these people, anyway, and especially not with Kevin.
Yesterday night Kevin began arguing with Charles about something. I heard them shouting in the other room. These places they find to sleep in are always cold and dark. I like darkness, but I detest feeling cold. I couldn't understand what they were saying, but I was mentioned quite a few times. Pete came into the conversation on Charles's side, and Kevin stormed out, clearly furious. I guess, insofar as I can tell, that Charles was defending me. I like Charles. Whenever I begin crying or I'm scared, he sits next to me and comforts me. It's very kind of him.
They were arguing about me, and I don't know why. I don't think I care, either. Am I going to die? There are times when I wonder how long there is left for me to live. When someone is kidnapped, normally that person is killed, so I think this will happen to me, too. I wonder if they will bury me after my death.

Steve - you are NOT getting more men. I told you we've got work to do, and your team’s large enough already. I'm giving you one more week. Either you find them, or I'm giving this case to someone else.

Four days ago Kevin tried to rape me. What a scumbag. I was just sleeping in my bed, in that mattress full of fleas, when Kevin came in. He sat over me and placed a sweaty hand on my mouth, so that I could not scream. I kicked and shook myself, and did all I could to resist him, but he was incredibly strong.
In retrospect, I don't think I've ever been so utterly terrified in my life. His sweaty fingers moved all over me, I could hear him panting and wheezing in the dark like an animal, his breath was an unbearable stench, he was an unbearable stench, and he was infinitely stronger than me.
I don't feel like going into detail, but I was pretty lucky. Apparently, I was saved by Charles. He was the one who ran in and got Kevin off me, and he was the one who struggled with him in the dark. (How's that for a knight in shining armour?) I screamed and William and Pete came in, switching the lights on. They finally managed to get Charles and Kevin off each other. I just screamed all the time, until Charles himself had to silence me.
They all walked out, switching the lights off again and returning me to my warm hole of darkness, where I sat and cried on my bed all night. Hours trickled by, every second stealing a tear before sliding away. The next day, as the sun began rising, Charles came in and sat next to me. He told me not to cry. I kissed him.

Steve - glad you've finally managed to find them. Stop hesitating and go get them: This story's been dragging itself onwards for way too long anyway.
Paul.

I've fallen in love with Charles, or so I think. Which is really the last thing I needed. We made love, a few days ago, and since then Kevin's been staring at us with black hatred. Me and Charles never do anything when someone else is around, but of course the whole group knows about it, and no one likes it.
I had never made love with anyone, before. Was it enjoyable? I suppose it was. I did expect it to be a bit better, though.
Yesterday, from the window, I saw the sun setting. For some reason, it made me think of birth. The sun was not burning to watch, for once; rather, it looked like a bright, red coin. A coin with sides so sharp that it was capable of cutting the sky's womb, and that's why the latter was bleeding so profusely. The red blood of the sky seemed creamy, as if the blue dome was losing form. Indeed, the whole world was dissolving.
Things melt.

Paul - finally burnt the bastards. Two of them died in the firefight. The other two were captured, but they'll get the chair anyway. Sorry for having taken so long. What's gonna happen to the girl, by the way?
Steve.

They were nice, to allow me to keep my diary. Kevin died, fortunately. I don't miss him at all. His death was grotesque: He ran like an animal, surprisingly fast, given his weight, until he was hit on the spine. He bawled and collapsed, and I still remember the way his glassy eyes looked up at the sky as he bled to death on the floor. I suppose they must have taken his body out of there. Given his stench in life, I can't begin to imagine what he must be like in death. I always find it very funny, when I think about how similar his death was to a rat's. William was also shot, I've been told, but I didn't see that.
Charles and Pete were arrested. I've been told that Charles has been condemned to death. I think he would be glad if I requested to see him, but I will not. He can go and get roasted on the chair, he and his fucked up romanticism. He was such an ignorant. His notion of love was cheaper than the one I used to find in my father's hidden books. The most annoying aspect of it all is that I still think I love him. I cried when I was told that he was going to die.
Me, I'm not dead, surprisingly. I expected to, but I did not die. I might die today, or during the following weeks. Otherwise I'll just wait forty or fifty years, and time will do the job for me.
I think that something was burnt inside me, during these last weeks, but I can't tell what. This is a nice place, anyway. The rooms are warm enough, and I've finally found darkness again.

v

The spirit of Kett the rebel without applause
lives in those who question the state and its laws
Norwich is my platinum lined nimbus
of reflecting prisms
perfectly imprisoned until
thought turns to ink precipitation
(to show my creative participation)

Contributors…

Norwich Series i-v, STAND UP by Joseph Coghlan

Pressure Cooker, Regret (England 2004), (story), Editing by Ali Jones-Bey

The Football Factory, Bangkok Fiction, Drawings, Editing by Alex Flux

Concoctions of Twisted Thoughts, Me, My Soul Hides Behind Shadows by Chaka…?

Sounds Like, Scars by Gilberto…?

(untitled), Strange Fruit by Naa Norley

Audra by Andrea Tallarita

contribute

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defense (intentional (mis)spelling)

defense II