A melancholy melody
interrupts the mindless chatter,
cutlery clatter,
crash,
as light bulbs pop,
overhead
where ah’s and ooh’s evaporate,
enveloped in violin's wail
somewhere on stage.

Where the saltwater rapids rage
and foam at the mouth,
there, where tidal currents mold
and drag silver-sliver streams,
a rowboat bobs.

In the after hours -
if one can call it that –
in the furthermost corner,
he finishes his ale,
(warm, as ale should be),
pushes his chair back
and straightens his robes,
stained with moon’s shadows, winter pale.

Buck-toothed he whispers
the magic word to the counter staff;
bow-legged a callused foot taps
against the cheap silver
of the convenience store counter
that holds last minute cheats.

A life of indulgence
over,
a grave burden off my
shoulders.

The old machine pulls ‘n puffs
its dark belly
filled with faces from a van Gogh

“Hold the gun.”
It rests imposingly in the palm
of the small hand that has to pull the trigger;
cold-blooded index finger-

‘Chaotic’ was the first thought that came to mind as I held up the crime scene tape for Chief Inspector Bailey to step through. The morning sun broke the darkness, the Bangkok humidity and heat making me drowsy.

The lake is frozen,
mountain slopes cold – white blankets –
here and there a tree,
almost out of place;
little blackheads, their branches
infecting the land.

The interrogation was swift. A short lower-rank official with beady eyes and a bad skin started proceedings by noting down our personal details.

At once I understood that I had not imagined the rustles in the grove. Without hesitation I was back behind a thick Birch when the two beasts came into view. I thought I was hallucinating because McNally’s two guard dogs were floating shoulder height, side-by-side, through the bright lime leaves.

Their heads were bobbing as they talked:

From Missus Fines' I followed the Peppermint Willows lining the wider roadway of Stockford Lane. ‘Pardon me,’ I said to one of the leaner ‘uns, ‘I can’t resist picking a few of your leaves and rubbing them between my fingers. There’s nothing like the smell of fresh leaves, especially after being washed by the heavens. I shall confess my sin to Bishop Murphy on Sunday,’ I vowed.

We met at the cemetery gates on Thursdays.
I can’t remember why, exactly; we could have been free from bothersome household chores by late afternoon, or maybe Thursday sounded perfect to meet at such dreary surroundings.

Colin popped the trunk and lifted a plastic wrapped kitbag over his shoulder. Somebody stumbled out of the bushes behind him.

“Hey, man!” a boy, not older than seventeen or eighteen, shouted. There was a girl by his side; she lifted a half-empty beer bottle to her lips.

Colin parked the Thunderbird between a BMW and a Vespa. Leaning forward, he took out a piece of paper from under the dash board. ‘Blue Frog Software,’ he whispered while running his index finger over the logo.

There’s the clang-a-lang-lang of cheap cutlery
in the sink;
she always washes up
straight after meals,
or let the dishes stand overnight, rather –
rice is a bitch to rinse out.

There’s also the tip-tappity-tap of a cheap ballpoint
on his chin;
no idea where it came from,
maybe next to the phone, by the notepad,
with the little pink teddy bears printed on it –
he always draws moustaches on them.

Electric thought-rattle-shocks,
strands of twisted genetic material
run up and down its spine,
kick starting its brain as he exits the womb
covered in bubble-chunked afterbirth.

It’s in that instant
when head connects with cold stone
(both eyes still shut)
that the creature senses
a mad purpose for its new existence.

Start at the beginning
(‘that did not happen; was I dreaming?’)
and you will see that everything’s not true.

Your hair, crisp,
('it is me, though half-forgotten?')
and your skin oily, no matter what product you use.

The end is near.
(‘This is me!’ you holler)
I are you in a different conditional; a strange blue

Her smile wasn’t real,
the dimples oddly shallow
and her lips puckered;
she was looking down
through a tangled teenage fringe,
a wall between us.

Bizarre syllables
hitting me with blood red bricks;
drip-drip on her shoe
and florescent strobe;
we dance a tango of pain,
the patient and I.