Dummy

There's a dummy in the corner of the room. His skin looks withered and has turned orange with age. As if a scrap of leather had rotted or spoilt in the sun. This image wasn't too far from the smell that came with it.
Someone had come along with a needle and thread. Thick black thread. Like the leg of a particularly large spider. They had pierced little holes along the rim of his eyelids and sewn his eyes shut. This withered scrap of man in the corner was wearing a very expensive looking suit. Black cut. Silk Armour for the war of business. And a very
very
dashing tie.
Not only were his eye's locked shut by the thread, but his mouth was too. Little holes pierced along the rim of his lips. So close to the edge that if pulled too much i'd expect them to rip. Then if they all ripped he would have lots of little gnaw-marks along his mouth. Like a thousand locusts had feasted on the hole in his face.
So with no eyes and no mouth and skin like a dried orange, this smart business man sat almost lifeless in the corner of the room with his closed briefcase and shiny watch. I say lifeless...
The twitch from his arm was a sudden shock as i thought he would have passed out an age ago from the pain, and from the smell i assumed the same. He can't see and even if he tried to open his eyes he would have ripped holes in his eyelids that would have made the strongest of men weep acid tears that would burn into the their heads like lye on a wet hand.
And even with his eyes and mouth sewn shut... he's still looking directly into me.

Identity Crisis

and so i awoke.
stranded and confused at the side of some country road. dizzy and lost. i looked down at myself and im not in my own clothes. i don't own this plaid shirt. i dont have these brown shoes. these are not my trousers. i look inside and these are not my underwear. i check my pockets and i find a phone that isn't mine full of numbers of people i dont know. i also find a wallet i have never seen before in my life full of money i didnt earn. i look further into the wallet and there is nothing but a library card with a name on that isnt mine. i pick up these collected items and find my feet. i take a look around and its dusk. the sun has gone to sleep but it isnt yet night time. there is a slight humid feeling in the air. a storm is coming. i walk ahead to try and find something or someone.
after the turn to the right i find an old country pub. there are no plants and no tables, just this old shed that could be as much a slaughterhouse as it could be a bar. i step inside and it's low lighting all around. paintings of hunt-scenes adorn the walls and old farming equipment is hung as decoration. certificates and medals fill one wall, all awarded for best kept livestock. tastiest beef. best baked loaf.
the man behind the bar, he has wrinkled, worn skin. spurts of grey and white hair randomly shoot out from different areas on his head of old shoe-boot leather. he stares at me with eyes that look like they have seen wars, sadness, massacres and disasters. his eyes not only look like they have seen these things, they look like they had a smile attached when they happened.
i ask him where i am.
he stares at me a second longer, faceless and without expression, untill the tiny muscles in his face contract and his withering lips rise like they are being pulled out at each end. his mouth falls open and his teeth of sepia-tone stain face me head-on. and his laugh is truly damning.
at that moment i realise that where i am has no relevance. i no longer have a name or a face. i look around and see a mirror on another wall. it is not my head on my shoulders. i am no longer who i thought i was.

Jogging

and so i was jogging.
and this strange man came up behind me. he was wearing good strong clothes, a suit and a tie, and all the little things that went with it, like a case and papers. but boy, did he stink to high heaven! i thought only a bum could smell that bad. some wino of the sidewalk. but no - this statue of all that is good and right in society
yeh, he came up to me and he asked me for
some change. i said - but your a businessman!
what do you want my money for? he told me he
was homeless. i said - you've got a personell badge
from that big tower building, how can YOU be
homeless? he told me - just because i have money
and i have a house and a wife that cheats on me
with the gardener and kids who don't even know
my middle name, let alone know me. just because i
have all that, does not mean i have a home. i said to him to stop being
so silly. he has so much more than most people - and yet he complains
about things like this. he agreed that his complaints were futile, therefore making his life somewhat pointless. then he ran west and jumped off the bridge we were standing on and into the golden gate river. what a strange man, i thought to myself, as i took another sip of coffee and another bite from my sticky sweet danish...

Balance

walking down my street last night.
i couldn't sleep and it was about 2AM. although i couldn't sleep, i was groggy and out of balance. i stumbled out of my pit and put on any clothes i tripped over on my way up. i grabbed my keys and i locked the door behind me.
at night everything is different. it's the same buildings and the same scenery, but isolated. life after the apocolypse. normally you can only be this alone inside your head or in a big field, but out here, at this time, is magnificent. the air is as crisp and as cold as a knife blade, and the air isn't as heavy with smoke and gas as it is in the day when big men with their big SUVs and big guns come parading round this circus tent.
all done up in their combat uniform - just in case we get attacked this very second - with their huge black guns full of tiny little portions of death. sharp shiny portions. but not here and not now. now i can walk down where i live and everything is still and everything is silent. all is at peace, for the first time in a long time.
i know that as soon as i wake up everything will be busy again. it's like life is sped up in the day - all rush rush rush - and so to compensate it has to slow right down at night. then the day can balance up. wouldn't it be strange if it was calm in the day time and calm at night - all equal. that kind of balance doesn't exist in modern days i suppose. only in the past, in books and stories.
as i turn the key back in the lock and walk upstairs i think about how calm it is outside.
and i still can't sleep.

Bored at Work

outside the leaves are falling like rockets from the sky.
the plants shiver like lost children in a snowstorm.
outside it is windy and i wish i was there.
but at the moment i find myself behind my desk in my office with paper and pens and post-it notes and nothing to show for my life. it's my 41st birthday tomorrow and i don't think anyone knows. i go home to my four room penthouse park avenue apartment home.
alone.
with nothing to show for my life.
nothing but the money i save. i keep telling myself i need this money to make me happy. but i can't use it because i'm too busy getting more happiness trade-in's.
each one a little pleasure IOU.
and so as i sit, do nothing, and each second make another ten dollars on stocks, i actually get paid to fart.
every burp another ten bucks.
twenty every time i scratch my ass.
a dollar for every nail i bite.
and still, i have nothing to show for my life. i'll die a tombstone. sure, it'll be the best looking grave in the place, but that will be the sum total of my years.
i stop this foolish thinking when i hear a scratch at the door. the twelve foot pine tree of a door bursts out open. on all fours, a glaringly pink beast trotts in. little grey hairs sprout from random spots on his skin-pink tank, like the hairs at the bottom of an onion. around his barrel of a torso there is a little black waistcoat-jacket that is tied so tight it looks like it will explode at any moment. maybe the little penny-sized buttons will pop off and hit me straight square in the eyes. if im lucky i won't survive it.
this behemoth trotts in, a little black waistcoat covering a lovely silk tie covering a clean white shirt covering a sweaty fatty mass. on this lard's head is a little black top hat. it's shiney and clean against his mudstained pink flesh. he trotts in. i can see a shot of red blood fuse with milky white at the edge of his eyes. the red - a sign of anger.
this pig.
this big greed machine, he crawls in with an unmistakable swagger in his stride. he snorts a grotesque mix of angry pig noises and sweaty spit in my face. after this little attempt at communication i hurridly get back to my work, tap-tap-tapping away at my computer screen as i monotonously reply: "yes boss"