|
Tattoo
Mark had his right bicep tattooed completely black to hide an old tattoo of a male stick figure he got several years earlier. It would have been easy to cover with a much better tattoo, but he didn't want the hassle of choosing another one he could grow to hate eventually like the first one. He was always reading from a thick novel at work. Everyone talked about him, saying how smart he was. One day I noticed his book was upside down, told him. Now you know my secret, he said laughing. He never had much money, telling me most of his wage went supporting his mother's alcohol, and gambling addiction. It was just the 2 of them: he had to look after her. I remembered my uncle spending the first few years of adulthood in jail. None of the family visiting him while he was there, or ever speaking about it after. The silence in his eyes when he was released. Never breaking the law again. Mark stopped turning up for work. I'd see him occasionally, walking with an older woman, I assumed was his mother. Over a month passed. Tom our manager sacked him, apologised, said he had no choice. Shortly after Mark took his life. Leaping from a scenic cliff on a beautiful clear Monday morning. I thought about his tattoo. The stick man he got completely covered in black: all the other tattoos he could have used to hide it. from The New York Quarterly #68, 2022 The End of the Night On the train home from work today I passed another train. A teenage boy and girl were looking at me, middle fingers saluting the sky, screaming: "FUCK YOU!" I waved at them, gently mouthing: "I love you." They both froze, not knowing what to do. I remembered myself at that age, angrier than words could say: hoping they'd make it too. from The Main Street Rag, Fall 2021 |
Factory
There's
an old
abandoned
building
I pass
everyday
on my
way to
work.
The walls
are
crumbling
and roof
gave way
long ago
to all the
birds.
It is
surrounded
by a
barbed
wire fence
(to keep
out the
homeless)
and new
apartment
buildings.
My father
gave up
the best
years of
his life
to this
building.
Sewing
quality
leather
goods
under
harsh
false
light.
He went
from
athlete to
drunk to
drunken
husband:
with never
enough
money to
handle any
of it.
I often
think about
the old
building
standing
there after
all these
years,
working as
my father
once did;
in a
building
that will
one day
crumble:
but never
disappear.
from Chiron Review #120, Winter 2020
Road Trip
On the way back from the road trip
she asked me to drive past my ex-
partners home. I was confused, not
understanding why she would want
this. She was my first love, best love,
person I cared for most, and think
about most, even now after so many
years. I always avoided driving past
that place. It brought back too many
memories, memories I wasn't strong
enough to deal with. She was calm,
asked me to change the radio
station. I turned onto the street.
Slowed down where the house was,
carefully looking. I couldn't see it.
Did a quick loop and tried again,
getting the same result. Sarah
smiled, said we should stop, have a
closer look. "Let's get out of here," I
said knowing for the first time since
we split, I'd never return.
from The Asylum Floor 4, 2020
The Outsider for Vincent Van Gogh
I see you now crying in
your glass at the sombre
ugly dawn
I see you now watching
the beautiful girl with the
ribbons in her hair dancing
so freely outside on the
street
I see you now smiling at
the proud fluttering crows
hanging on strings in the
afternoon sky
I see you now knowing the
names of all the forgotten
peasants working in the
field
I see you now talking to
the enchanting blinding
trees
I see you now looking at
the masterworks and
knowing what went
wrong
I see you now turning the
small walls of your room
into giant rainbows
I see you now frustrated
at all the colours that just
won’t come
I see you now running
from the terror and
wondering why no one
else can see it
I see you now mesmerized
by the starry starry night
I see you now in youth
preaching with sincerity
for justice
I see you now laughing at
the dizzy yellow sun
I see you now telling the
other painters they have
it all wrong
I see you now remembering
the touch of her hand
I see you now drunk at midnight
thinking about the bridge you
know you will one day paint
I see you now crushed flat by
rejection not knowing how
many headaches your works
will one day cure
I see you now howling her
name like a wounded charging
bull in an empty forgotten
arena
I see you now looking at the
day and seeing only night
I see you now embracing
your brother in your delicate
trembling arms
I see you now alone again
I see you now awakened by
the glowing sunflowers of
morning
I see you now whipped again
by the vicious sting of
disappointment
I see you now wondering why
she doesn’t say your name
I see you now on a mission
to capture all the beauty of
the day
I see you now turning grey
skies into more than gold
I see you now pas de deux
with the whispering autumn
leaves
I see you now sacrifice flesh
for not enough in return
I see you now talking to
faces that could never see
your face
I see you now holding onto
a canvas that would change
your fortunes far too late
I see you now desperate
like a beggar
I see you now hiding humiliated
in your room
I see you now painting a canvas
with more light than a dozen
suns
I see you now the original
outsider
I see you now the guiding light
for the overlooked
I see you now the hope of
the dispossessed
I see you now gun in hand
with wounds more tragic
than fresh melting snow
I see you now
forever now
dying
for
love.
from Resurrection of a Sunflower, Pski's Porch
The Last Fight
Billy “Beat Down” Henderson was once the most popular fighter in the world; that was a long time ago though. Now you would struggle to find a single fan: and that was how he liked it. He hated fans. He hated fighting too. But kept doing it because he had no other way to make money. He’d fight 2 or 3 times a year to earn enough to support his greedy ex-wife and brainwashed son: that he was never allowed to see, and live a basic life.
A few weeks earlier he got a call from Dino Night to replace Eddie Alvey in his welterweight title fight against Cam McDunn in less than three weeks time. He’d be fighting up a weight class and wouldn’t need to cut weight for the fight. This was appealing to him. He wouldn’t have to diet or train too hard.
McDunn was 27 and Irish and the new poster boy of the organisation. He had the whole of Ireland behind him and most of the world as well. He was the company’s most popular fighter. He even had his first ever boxing match 7 months ago, that was as real as a pas de deux by the New York City Ballet, but still made over 100 million and gained even more fans.
Truth is Billy hated McDunn and everything he stood for. He’d love to smash that idiot’s big mouth and soft face in with his trademark right hand, but wouldn’t let that get in the way of his next check, and seriously doubted he could do it now anyway.
He was the company’s bad guy: its most hated heel. They could sell the absolute shit out of this fight. And the rabbit they had in the hat was he had never been knocked out before. Dino Night had promised him a small fortune for this.
Billy had never thrown a fight. But there was a first time for everything. And he’d make enough from this one to give up fighting completely.
When he got the call for the fight he was at the end of a 4-day drinking session, which wasn’t an uncommon thing for him now. He drank more than he trained. He hated training: what was the point anyway! The fans booed him win or lose. So why put any extra effort in, he often thought.
Billy always did the bare minimum these days in the gym, or didn’t bother showing up at all. He cut ties years ago with his original trainer “Brains” Johnson; that took him in as a teenager and trained him all the way to the youngest-ever lightweight champion. Since then “Brains” has trained several champions but none ever had the same impact as Billy.
One of Night’s conditions for the fight was he had to train with “Brains” again. Would make it look more authentic. Make the fuckers believe you could win this thing. Jesus! When you trained with him before you couldn’t lose. I have never seen anything like it before, or since: it was beautiful, all those knockouts! No one will ever do that again. But don’t get any funny ideas. If you win, or lose the fight in any way other than KO, the deal is off. And you will never fight in this, or any other smaller organisation again, I will see to that, he said to Billy in his office after he signed the fight contract.
A few hours and phone calls later he was training with “Brains” in a new gym that was nothing like the one they used to train in. It was really big and all the equipment was clean and new. He missed the old gym that was like a dungeon, with an old small ring somehow squeezed in there. There were no weights or treadmills or fancy machines, just sweat and impossible dreams.
He noticed his photo on the wall above all the other champions with a caption underneath saying: “BELIEVE!” He looked away from it quickly and didn’t look at it again.
“Brains” ran him through a few minutes of pad work and he vomited. “Jesus! Let’s watch some film instead. You been on that whiskey diet again,” “Brains” said.
“Brains” knew nothing about the deal. He thought it was a real fight.
The training didn’t go so well but “Brains” knew the talent inside his fighter could beat anyone given the right circumstance. Though he doubted this was the right circumstance.
The fight promotions were as expected. Everything McDunn said was greeted with applause and everything Billy said was greeted with hatred. He loved it. He remembered the line from that great French novel: “Hatred is the currency of the poor.” All those fuckers are paupers, he thought.
Every night Billy would go to a bar on the other side of town. No one knew him there: that was how he liked it. He’d had fame and love. And those same people turned on him within moments when he lost a title fight. He had a broken right hand that he got in the first round but fought on for the next 4. He stopped using that arm for punching because of the pain and his opponent that was way below his level ended up getting an easy decision over him. No one knew about the broken hand other than “Brains” and he swore him to secrecy. That night everyone thought he threw the fight and started booing him and they haven’t stopped since.
He began enjoying himself leading into fight week. The fans hatred was rich and potent and he loved that. The thing was, no matter how much they hated him, he would always hate them more: that was his ace.
The weigh-ins went easy. He ate a steak and fries a few hours before and still made weight. McDunn made weight as usual in his underwear then flexed his muscles and screamed like a retarded gorilla. Billy just stood there in a loose tracksuit laughing at him in the stare down. He had nothing to prove except losing and the massive payout.
That night he kept to his routine that saw him lose his last 5 fights, a bottle of whiskey and a hooker. It felt even better than it normally did, he never minded losing, he hated having to actually fight and the fear of doing something good in there that might make the crowd cheer for him. Though there would be no chance of that in this fight, and it would also be his last. Which made him happier than words could say.
He came faster than usually and told the hooker to leave. He turned on the television. There was an old clip of him knocking out Ramsey Downie the night he became the lightweight champ. He quickly turned off the television and looked at the walls.
Walking to the cage he was booed like never before—he loved it. He tried not to smile. If only I could tell these fuckers how much I hate them all. How their hero is nothing but an actor, and a bad one at that. That they are wasting their hard-earned money on a complete farce, he thought. He stopped walking a moment. A full cup of lemonade hit him in the head. He smiled.
He stood in the cage waiting for McDunn to come out. He was really taking his time. Billy didn’t mind. Ready for a quick loss and the most money he had ever made.
“Brains” kept running him through the strategy. He nodded his head continuously but wasn’t listening. All he could hear was McDunn’s cheers. And they made him feel sick.
He was slightly hung over and hadn’t slept much. He figured he could keep it going for 2 rounds and would let it go in the 3rd—had to make it look convincing: didn’t want to risk any controversy that might jeopardize the payout.
McDunn finally made it to the cage and pranced around like a fool for a couple of minutes and the fight began.
Billy was immediately surprised by his lack of punching power. McDunn was meant to be a power puncher. It would be harder than he thought to make his punches look like they hurt him.
He’d never done anything like this before but it seemed to be going well. The crowd and commentators had completely fallen for his performance. He could even see Night in the front row smiling. And that bastard rarely smiled. This one was absolute money in the bank.
The second round finished and McDunn had landed 114 significant strikes to his 3. This was the round he would go down. He didn’t want it to look too staged though.
He came out and threw a couple of punch combinations. One of the punches hit McDunn on the left cheek. It wasn’t flush contact, but was contact none the less. The crowd collectively stopped breathing. McDunn wobbled a bit on his feet, and his facial expression went from cocky, to dazed. Billy looked at Night. He had a furious look on his face. He gave it a few seconds and McDunn was still dazed. If I hit him again this thing is over, he thought.
He shot for a takedown and lay on McDunn throwing the occasional weak hammer-fist so it looked authentic, hoping he would recover soon.
This went on for over a minute.
At that point something strange happened. The crowd started cheering louder than they had all night. Billy thought it was to wake up McDunn. Though they soon started chanting his name. He couldn’t believe it; after all these years, after all their hatred: they were cheering him again. In a fight they all wanted him to lose. In a fight he didn’t even train for or want to win. They were cheering. He thought about the early days. When he lived for the sport. When becoming a champion was everything to him. When he and “Brains” were inseparable. He looked out at Night. He now had the same smile he had earlier on his face. He could tell what he was thinking. He could tell what everyone was thinking. They wanted him to win. They wanted a new hero. They were all tired of McDunn. They wanted someone new to worship.
The fight was stood up. He felt a sudden burst of energy. He hadn’t felt this for many years. That feeling like he was in a tight tunnel with nothing but him and his opponent in front of him, and a power inside that could tear anything to pieces. McDunn still hadn’t properly recovered. He hit him with a few good body shots to soften him up. That was what he always did: go low then high. That was his secret.
For the next 30 seconds he landed more punches than he had in the last 5 years. McDunn was done: his left eye was completely closed and looked like he had nothing left. One more punch and the fight would be over.
Billy stopped and looked around the arena. All he could see was smiles. All he could hear was cheers. He thought about what winning this fight would mean to his life, then hit McDunn with the hardest body kick he ever threw.
McDunn was on all fours ready to be finished. Billy looked at the crowd again: their false smiles, their false cheers, their false heroes, their false lives: their false money they drown you in.
He hit McDunn with an illegal knee to the head. The fight was immediately stopped. McDunn won by disqualification. The crowd booed louder than he ever heard before. Night was furious.
Billy stood over McDunn smiling feeling completely free for the first time in as long as he could remember. The fight was over.
from Bash the Keys Until They Scream, Epic Rites Press
There's
an old
abandoned
building
I pass
everyday
on my
way to
work.
The walls
are
crumbling
and roof
gave way
long ago
to all the
birds.
It is
surrounded
by a
barbed
wire fence
(to keep
out the
homeless)
and new
apartment
buildings.
My father
gave up
the best
years of
his life
to this
building.
Sewing
quality
leather
goods
under
harsh
false
light.
He went
from
athlete to
drunk to
drunken
husband:
with never
enough
money to
handle any
of it.
I often
think about
the old
building
standing
there after
all these
years,
working as
my father
once did;
in a
building
that will
one day
crumble:
but never
disappear.
from Chiron Review #120, Winter 2020
Road Trip
On the way back from the road trip
she asked me to drive past my ex-
partners home. I was confused, not
understanding why she would want
this. She was my first love, best love,
person I cared for most, and think
about most, even now after so many
years. I always avoided driving past
that place. It brought back too many
memories, memories I wasn't strong
enough to deal with. She was calm,
asked me to change the radio
station. I turned onto the street.
Slowed down where the house was,
carefully looking. I couldn't see it.
Did a quick loop and tried again,
getting the same result. Sarah
smiled, said we should stop, have a
closer look. "Let's get out of here," I
said knowing for the first time since
we split, I'd never return.
from The Asylum Floor 4, 2020
The Outsider for Vincent Van Gogh
I see you now crying in
your glass at the sombre
ugly dawn
I see you now watching
the beautiful girl with the
ribbons in her hair dancing
so freely outside on the
street
I see you now smiling at
the proud fluttering crows
hanging on strings in the
afternoon sky
I see you now knowing the
names of all the forgotten
peasants working in the
field
I see you now talking to
the enchanting blinding
trees
I see you now looking at
the masterworks and
knowing what went
wrong
I see you now turning the
small walls of your room
into giant rainbows
I see you now frustrated
at all the colours that just
won’t come
I see you now running
from the terror and
wondering why no one
else can see it
I see you now mesmerized
by the starry starry night
I see you now in youth
preaching with sincerity
for justice
I see you now laughing at
the dizzy yellow sun
I see you now telling the
other painters they have
it all wrong
I see you now remembering
the touch of her hand
I see you now drunk at midnight
thinking about the bridge you
know you will one day paint
I see you now crushed flat by
rejection not knowing how
many headaches your works
will one day cure
I see you now howling her
name like a wounded charging
bull in an empty forgotten
arena
I see you now looking at the
day and seeing only night
I see you now embracing
your brother in your delicate
trembling arms
I see you now alone again
I see you now awakened by
the glowing sunflowers of
morning
I see you now whipped again
by the vicious sting of
disappointment
I see you now wondering why
she doesn’t say your name
I see you now on a mission
to capture all the beauty of
the day
I see you now turning grey
skies into more than gold
I see you now pas de deux
with the whispering autumn
leaves
I see you now sacrifice flesh
for not enough in return
I see you now talking to
faces that could never see
your face
I see you now holding onto
a canvas that would change
your fortunes far too late
I see you now desperate
like a beggar
I see you now hiding humiliated
in your room
I see you now painting a canvas
with more light than a dozen
suns
I see you now the original
outsider
I see you now the guiding light
for the overlooked
I see you now the hope of
the dispossessed
I see you now gun in hand
with wounds more tragic
than fresh melting snow
I see you now
forever now
dying
for
love.
from Resurrection of a Sunflower, Pski's Porch
The Last Fight
Billy “Beat Down” Henderson was once the most popular fighter in the world; that was a long time ago though. Now you would struggle to find a single fan: and that was how he liked it. He hated fans. He hated fighting too. But kept doing it because he had no other way to make money. He’d fight 2 or 3 times a year to earn enough to support his greedy ex-wife and brainwashed son: that he was never allowed to see, and live a basic life.
A few weeks earlier he got a call from Dino Night to replace Eddie Alvey in his welterweight title fight against Cam McDunn in less than three weeks time. He’d be fighting up a weight class and wouldn’t need to cut weight for the fight. This was appealing to him. He wouldn’t have to diet or train too hard.
McDunn was 27 and Irish and the new poster boy of the organisation. He had the whole of Ireland behind him and most of the world as well. He was the company’s most popular fighter. He even had his first ever boxing match 7 months ago, that was as real as a pas de deux by the New York City Ballet, but still made over 100 million and gained even more fans.
Truth is Billy hated McDunn and everything he stood for. He’d love to smash that idiot’s big mouth and soft face in with his trademark right hand, but wouldn’t let that get in the way of his next check, and seriously doubted he could do it now anyway.
He was the company’s bad guy: its most hated heel. They could sell the absolute shit out of this fight. And the rabbit they had in the hat was he had never been knocked out before. Dino Night had promised him a small fortune for this.
Billy had never thrown a fight. But there was a first time for everything. And he’d make enough from this one to give up fighting completely.
When he got the call for the fight he was at the end of a 4-day drinking session, which wasn’t an uncommon thing for him now. He drank more than he trained. He hated training: what was the point anyway! The fans booed him win or lose. So why put any extra effort in, he often thought.
Billy always did the bare minimum these days in the gym, or didn’t bother showing up at all. He cut ties years ago with his original trainer “Brains” Johnson; that took him in as a teenager and trained him all the way to the youngest-ever lightweight champion. Since then “Brains” has trained several champions but none ever had the same impact as Billy.
One of Night’s conditions for the fight was he had to train with “Brains” again. Would make it look more authentic. Make the fuckers believe you could win this thing. Jesus! When you trained with him before you couldn’t lose. I have never seen anything like it before, or since: it was beautiful, all those knockouts! No one will ever do that again. But don’t get any funny ideas. If you win, or lose the fight in any way other than KO, the deal is off. And you will never fight in this, or any other smaller organisation again, I will see to that, he said to Billy in his office after he signed the fight contract.
A few hours and phone calls later he was training with “Brains” in a new gym that was nothing like the one they used to train in. It was really big and all the equipment was clean and new. He missed the old gym that was like a dungeon, with an old small ring somehow squeezed in there. There were no weights or treadmills or fancy machines, just sweat and impossible dreams.
He noticed his photo on the wall above all the other champions with a caption underneath saying: “BELIEVE!” He looked away from it quickly and didn’t look at it again.
“Brains” ran him through a few minutes of pad work and he vomited. “Jesus! Let’s watch some film instead. You been on that whiskey diet again,” “Brains” said.
“Brains” knew nothing about the deal. He thought it was a real fight.
The training didn’t go so well but “Brains” knew the talent inside his fighter could beat anyone given the right circumstance. Though he doubted this was the right circumstance.
The fight promotions were as expected. Everything McDunn said was greeted with applause and everything Billy said was greeted with hatred. He loved it. He remembered the line from that great French novel: “Hatred is the currency of the poor.” All those fuckers are paupers, he thought.
Every night Billy would go to a bar on the other side of town. No one knew him there: that was how he liked it. He’d had fame and love. And those same people turned on him within moments when he lost a title fight. He had a broken right hand that he got in the first round but fought on for the next 4. He stopped using that arm for punching because of the pain and his opponent that was way below his level ended up getting an easy decision over him. No one knew about the broken hand other than “Brains” and he swore him to secrecy. That night everyone thought he threw the fight and started booing him and they haven’t stopped since.
He began enjoying himself leading into fight week. The fans hatred was rich and potent and he loved that. The thing was, no matter how much they hated him, he would always hate them more: that was his ace.
The weigh-ins went easy. He ate a steak and fries a few hours before and still made weight. McDunn made weight as usual in his underwear then flexed his muscles and screamed like a retarded gorilla. Billy just stood there in a loose tracksuit laughing at him in the stare down. He had nothing to prove except losing and the massive payout.
That night he kept to his routine that saw him lose his last 5 fights, a bottle of whiskey and a hooker. It felt even better than it normally did, he never minded losing, he hated having to actually fight and the fear of doing something good in there that might make the crowd cheer for him. Though there would be no chance of that in this fight, and it would also be his last. Which made him happier than words could say.
He came faster than usually and told the hooker to leave. He turned on the television. There was an old clip of him knocking out Ramsey Downie the night he became the lightweight champ. He quickly turned off the television and looked at the walls.
Walking to the cage he was booed like never before—he loved it. He tried not to smile. If only I could tell these fuckers how much I hate them all. How their hero is nothing but an actor, and a bad one at that. That they are wasting their hard-earned money on a complete farce, he thought. He stopped walking a moment. A full cup of lemonade hit him in the head. He smiled.
He stood in the cage waiting for McDunn to come out. He was really taking his time. Billy didn’t mind. Ready for a quick loss and the most money he had ever made.
“Brains” kept running him through the strategy. He nodded his head continuously but wasn’t listening. All he could hear was McDunn’s cheers. And they made him feel sick.
He was slightly hung over and hadn’t slept much. He figured he could keep it going for 2 rounds and would let it go in the 3rd—had to make it look convincing: didn’t want to risk any controversy that might jeopardize the payout.
McDunn finally made it to the cage and pranced around like a fool for a couple of minutes and the fight began.
Billy was immediately surprised by his lack of punching power. McDunn was meant to be a power puncher. It would be harder than he thought to make his punches look like they hurt him.
He’d never done anything like this before but it seemed to be going well. The crowd and commentators had completely fallen for his performance. He could even see Night in the front row smiling. And that bastard rarely smiled. This one was absolute money in the bank.
The second round finished and McDunn had landed 114 significant strikes to his 3. This was the round he would go down. He didn’t want it to look too staged though.
He came out and threw a couple of punch combinations. One of the punches hit McDunn on the left cheek. It wasn’t flush contact, but was contact none the less. The crowd collectively stopped breathing. McDunn wobbled a bit on his feet, and his facial expression went from cocky, to dazed. Billy looked at Night. He had a furious look on his face. He gave it a few seconds and McDunn was still dazed. If I hit him again this thing is over, he thought.
He shot for a takedown and lay on McDunn throwing the occasional weak hammer-fist so it looked authentic, hoping he would recover soon.
This went on for over a minute.
At that point something strange happened. The crowd started cheering louder than they had all night. Billy thought it was to wake up McDunn. Though they soon started chanting his name. He couldn’t believe it; after all these years, after all their hatred: they were cheering him again. In a fight they all wanted him to lose. In a fight he didn’t even train for or want to win. They were cheering. He thought about the early days. When he lived for the sport. When becoming a champion was everything to him. When he and “Brains” were inseparable. He looked out at Night. He now had the same smile he had earlier on his face. He could tell what he was thinking. He could tell what everyone was thinking. They wanted him to win. They wanted a new hero. They were all tired of McDunn. They wanted someone new to worship.
The fight was stood up. He felt a sudden burst of energy. He hadn’t felt this for many years. That feeling like he was in a tight tunnel with nothing but him and his opponent in front of him, and a power inside that could tear anything to pieces. McDunn still hadn’t properly recovered. He hit him with a few good body shots to soften him up. That was what he always did: go low then high. That was his secret.
For the next 30 seconds he landed more punches than he had in the last 5 years. McDunn was done: his left eye was completely closed and looked like he had nothing left. One more punch and the fight would be over.
Billy stopped and looked around the arena. All he could see was smiles. All he could hear was cheers. He thought about what winning this fight would mean to his life, then hit McDunn with the hardest body kick he ever threw.
McDunn was on all fours ready to be finished. Billy looked at the crowd again: their false smiles, their false cheers, their false heroes, their false lives: their false money they drown you in.
He hit McDunn with an illegal knee to the head. The fight was immediately stopped. McDunn won by disqualification. The crowd booed louder than he ever heard before. Night was furious.
Billy stood over McDunn smiling feeling completely free for the first time in as long as he could remember. The fight was over.
from Bash the Keys Until They Scream, Epic Rites Press
