Category Archives: animals

end of eras

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air balloons in sky over Bristol, UK

it has been a time of end of eras. things coming to a close or a major change happening after many years of just coasting along. days unchanging. constant. sure.

the first of these changes has been no.1 child finishing their ‘a’ levels and launching themselves onto the world. they are full of ideas and enthusiasm for what lies ahead, edged with a hint of steely determination. i think they are better prepared than i was at the same stage in life. much more knowledgable and wise.

part of this launch was moving out of the house for 10 weeks to do a course in bristol. the last time i was there was probably for an evening when my friends and i dove up from taunton and went to a large warehouse where four punk bands were playing. the headliner was the henry rollins band. i think he was also trying to flog a poetry book as well.

i have mixed emotions about the departure of no.1. i’m losing a buddy who always had something interesting to talk about. a new discovery. there is a space in the house where they were. but i’m also excited to see what will happen on their journey. what new adventures they will report back on. what life holds for them.

the second end was finishing my WIP. my novella. i started it in october 2022 and it has been with me sporadically since then. it has been the hardest piece of writing to write. it was out of my comfort zone. it had a number of elements i had to juggle and they needed to all land successfully. it was also the most planned because of this. i had to make every step right.

i was sporadic in the writing because i made some major changes to my life. changed my working world. made it less certain. and i’m older than when i wrote ‘wishbone billy.’ i don’t have the energy to do the late nights writing. and i find i also lack the focus now since the covid pandemic and lockdown. my ability to concentrate for long periods has dropped. i’m sure there will be a study somewhere which will look at the impact of covid on the mind. on cognitive function. if not, there should be.

and there was the doubt.the great shadow of the imposter raven on my shoulder. waiting. pecking. freezing my mind. it took some battling some days to overcome it and put words to page. to have the confidence in the project. the belief i could do it. i had to keep telling myself i had done it before. i could do it again.

and so three years later the first draft is done. finished. it is out to beta readers who will come back with an honest verdict on the thing. i look forward to hearing. and am beginning to ponder part two of the series. at the moment it is just a vague thought. but it is forming. ticking over. i’m excited by what my mind will generate.

the last end. the last end of the era. was the death of kaos my cat. he has been at my side many a time as i sat writing. he had appeared in many a prosepoem. but his time had come to an end. it was quick. surprising. heart breaking. there is a small space in the house where he should be. but he is not there. and when i sit at night to read or write it is just that bit more lonely. i think there will be the patter of his feet and a jump as he lands on my lap. but there is nothing. just me. my book. my writing.

Kaos the cat. black cat.

30

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Orange white and black cat

the cat sits on table and i in chair. the house is silent. not a sound. outside not a sound. not even a drunk on a phone swerving on route home. not a sound. silent. i sit in chair writing. gathering the thoughts of the day. now all is calm. a wine at hand. the voices have quietened. external.. internal.  now peace.. the room seems larger. bigger. full of. me. my thoughts. my moment. the quiet.  and me writing.  the light of the lamp casts shadows on the page. shadowing words. shadowing thoughts. moments. ideas. i pause to think.  to connect. recollect. and forget. a combination of desire, dream, and the movement of pen on paper. not sure where to go. being in shadow. once things were clear. clear as day. crisp in air. thought. but that moment has gone. so i sit in shadow. in the silence. with the lamp. cat on table. wine to hand.  the telly is on. but it does not speak. it too has succumbed to silence. the moment.  the hour. a flickering lamp. shadows dance.  then stop.  as my pen runs out of ink. and i am left in a moment in a silent room.

ants

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according to Google: the common ant you find in british gardens weighs one milligram.

it is a warm summer’s day in june. about 23 degrees. and i lie on the grass in my garden. the sun beats down on my back and legs. i have a black t-shirt on and black jeans. not really summer wear but being a folk who has many a mole this is how i tackle summer and avoid skin cancer. it is hot. even the birds have given up.

i soak up the sun like a lizard. feeling it pour into me. warming every part. i am being slowly baked by heat. delicious heat. as i drift between consciousness and a semi-dream state.

i open my eyes and study the grass before me. it’s several shades of green. lime. jade. olive. pickle. brown in patches. recently cut. it sports a neat trim that is not quite maintained when it reaches the flower borders. there are a few tufts springing up there. the places i didn’t quite cut with the mower. it is not the neatest of jobs but i decide to not let it guilt me. better to be lying in the sun.

my eye is caught by a movement in the grass. it is small but i still catch it. the movement of a cut sliver of green. an ant crossing the jungle of the lawn. crawling between each blade as it makes its way somewhere. i wonder how many ants there are there at that precise moment crawling through the grass. all on an errand to somewhere. perhaps they carry an urgent message. the sighting of a delicious sugary treat in someone’s house. just waiting to be exploited by the right colony of ants. the thought of so many ants crawling around me gives me the creeps. i bring my thumb down and squash the ant in front of me.

i always hated ants. the days before i knew better. when i would unwisely sit near a nest playing. then i would find them crawling on me. tickling my skin. making their way over my legs. i would scream. jump up. frantically bat at my body. try to get them off me. i would run. into the house. screaming. throwing my clothes off. my parents would come running. wondering what the matter was. they would find me. in the shower. hot water flowing over me. cleansing me of my hidden enemy.

i would enact my revenge on the ants. not by pouring hot water over the nest. no. that was too quick. too kind. i would get my lego. build upon a green base piece. a maze of walls with chambers. an entrance in. an exit out. add obstacles to overcome. twigs. leaves. sand. lego dots. then i would catch an ant. place it in the centre of the maze. add one or two more.

i would watch fascinated as they tried to make their way round. over the twigs. through the sand. under the lego dots. one would try to climb the walls. i would knock it back down. it soon learnt that way was futile.

the unfortunate ones would enter the torture rooms. the chambers where a splash of water would fall down. or a cascade of dirt or stones. the really unfortunate would enter the chamber where the brick came. crushing. squashing them. complete.

those that made it out of the maze got special treatment. they would be lifted high between my fingers. and placed upon alone lego brick. hot sun burning down through a magnifying glass. cooking and curling their form. a worthy sacrifice to an unseen god on a plastic alter.

the sun beats down. i lie watching the grass before me. there is another movement. two movements. near each other. two ants this time. making their way across the jungle lawn. are they friends? buddies on a little adventure. did they spend time in their colony of an evening discussing how their day had been? stories of the number of sweet foods found? i bring my thumb down. squash them. fucking ants.

the sun beats down. my lips are parched. but i’m too drowsy to move. i’m enjoying my spot on the grass too much. better to lie here. laying in the heat. i don’t want to move. just to enjoy the warmth on my back. the moment. more movement in the grass. four ants this time.

there was a time when i visited a forest with my parents. a sunday country walk. meant to get us kids away from the tv and invigorate the soul. or some shit like that. ahead of the others. i was clambering down a mud bank. dried earth baked in the sun. brown pine needles littering the earth. down on my back i went. slipping and sliding to the bottom. falling on my arse. i sat there a moment. not realising. not realising i was sat on a group of ants. big fuckers. bigger than the ones we got in our back garden. red and black bodies. shiny like berries. and they bit. oh, how they bit. i screamed and panicked. leapt up away from the ground. brushing frantically at my legs. my feet, they bit more. i don’t know how long i was there screaming and scraping away at my legs with my nails. red raw skin. before my parents came running. consoling. they brushed away the pain. i hated forests after that.

the four ants move across the grass. they are heading my way. i bring my thumb down. the executioner. squashing each one by one.

‘fuck you ants!’ i yell as i kill the last of them. ‘fuck you and all the ants!’

the grass turns to stillness. quiet. tired by the exertion in the sun my eyes droop. close. darkness.

it was the moving sensation that woke me. the sense of bobbing along. like moving on a gentle wave. floating.

i try to open my eyes. but i can’t.

i try to move my hands. but i can’t.

my legs. can’t.

i am bobbing somewhere. moving. being carried by something. i try not to panic. in the blackness. i can feel movement over me. small. tickling. out of reach. it makes me want to scream. but i can’t. my lips are held tight shut.

i try to focus my strength. focus my strength all into my right arm. centre it there. then a sudden movement. a pull. i pull my arm free. claw at my eyes. i can see. i wish i couldn’t.

they don’t fight back. they don’t cover my eyes again. maybe it was a sort of punishment. a way of letting me see the full horror of my situation. my arm is pulled back firmly. i can’t resist.

there are hundreds of them. thousands. thousand upon thousand of small black ants. small black bodies. crawling. moving. on top of me. under me. a thick living blanket of black bodies. constantly on the move. they are all over my mouth. in my ears. around my eyes. i piss myself.

we are in the sun. but are heading somewhere. purposeful. determined. i can’t turn my head to see. all i can see is the sky. crisp white clouds. ocean blue sky of a summer’s day. the ants. then darkness. we have entered somewhere. a tunnel of sorts. it feels as if i’m heading downwards. there is the feint smell of vinegar. we are dipping. along the tunnel. deep. deeper. it seems to be getting warmer the further we go.

i sense movement around me. in the heat. the darkness. and a feint hum. low. on the edges of sound. all around. it is increasing. as we go deeper. like the hum of an old television set when you turn it on. warm. hum. darkness.

then we stop moving. bobbing. downwards. and i feel them turning me. there is light here. i sense a presence. something powerful. i don’t want them to turn me. to see. the hum fills my head. my skull. pressing. my black captors release me. disappear in the dim light. my eyes get accustomed. then i see. and i scream.

the chamber is hot. stuffy. stifling. it stinks of vinegar. strong. overpowering. it stings my eyes. i blink to see. above me. towering over me. in this large chamber. is a huge figure. six limbed. thick as trunks. hairs like thorns. head the size of a small black car. mandibles opening and closing. giant shears that could snap an arm in two. a beast as tall as a house. a giant ant. the god ant. the humming intensifies. painful. and i know it comes from the god ant. it fills my head. i understand it. what it is saying. and it terrifies me.

the common ant you find in british gardens weighs one milligram.

moment 26

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a trail followed. sooty prints from fireplace to rug to telly. a story to be discovered. a wire severed. the cry of a child. teddy with arm detached. violently. trainers chewed. unblemished white blemished. a dirt trail on a duvet. a monkey ripped asunder. the karate dog safely hidden. relief as other teddy remains safe in upper room. a disaster adverted. in the shower, a single clue to visitors. an unpleasant sight. dark and wet. the foxy culprit long since gone.

bite

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he lay in the bath. letting the water marinate his skin. bath salts to soak and cleanse. to refresh. revitalise. tomorrow work. but no this. his time. unmeasured time. he sunk under the water. allowing it to cover his head. the whole of him. immersed. the water forming an echo chamber. of nothing. he rose. his head and neck out of the water. water trickling down his face. his shoulders. it was then he felt it. the stab of pain. their irritant on his neck. sharp. hot. he put his fingers to the area of the pain. it felt raised. a bump.

he finished his bath. dried himself off. peered in the mirror at his neck. there was the telltale redness. the raised skin. he had been bitten. by something. an insect probably. the price for walking in the woods. in the heat of the day. a memento. he took some antiseptic cream from the bathroom cabinet. squeezed a bit on the end of his index finger. rubbed it into the affected area. it stung a bit but nothing he couldn’t live with. he left the bathroom and entered the bedroom. time for bed.

that night he dreamt of the woods. he was walking. enjoying the sun. but then the sky turned dark. the air still. something was coming. coming for him.

he woke sharply. a nightmare. at his age. he rolled over and looked at the clock. an hour before he had to rise. damn. there was no chance of him getting back to sleep now. it would be a wasted effort. an hour of frustration. better to just get up. get dressed.

he looked in the bathroom mirror. ready to shave. his neck ached. the bite red. chili red. more raised. hot to touch. it would calm down. they always did. he shaved avoiding the inflamed area. threw cold water over his face. three times. to wake him to the day. dried himself off. returned to the bedroom.

white shirt. tie. suit trousers. no jacket. the weather was too warm. he had to be smart. presentable. even if not seen by the public. it was company policy. one of its ways. the company was stuck in another time when it cam,e to employees. another reason to leave. to find another job. move on. to better things. 

the commute was its usual intolerance. too many people crammed into a too hot carriage. armpit to face. he was glad when he stepped off. along the streets of london. to the bright white office in the centre of town. soaring high into the sky. a monument to business. he walked through the lobby. nodding to the security on reception. in the lift to the third floor. into the room of row after row of desks and computer terminals. a few had beat him there. heads already down. focused on their screens. tapping at keyboards. screens glowing.

he found his spot. sat down. typed in his password and set to work. a pile of sheets to his left in a tray. a spreadsheet on the screen waiting for figures. for data. it forever thirsted data. a pop up box appeared in the top right of his screen. a view of his manager. already scrutinizing. monitoring. he took the first paper. began to type the relevant data.

it was no good. his neck hurt. the collar of his shirt was rubbing the bite. pressing on it. grinding it. with each movement. each turn. a rub. he winced. that damn bite was going to make his day hell. it was no good. he would have to take an early break. make the time up later. something had to be done. he left the terminal. a frown from the manager.

he passed the desks to the back of the office. to the lunch bar. opened the small fridge and peered in the icebox. he wanted ice. cool ice. to put on the bite. to cool the heat. to bring relief. but there was nothing. just space. he took a cloth. ran it under cold water. squeezed it until damp. placed it on his neck. that was something. not ideal. something. he returned to his desk.

every hour. on the hour. he returned to the lunch bar and put cold water on the cloth. pressed it to his neck. trying to bring the heat down. to ease the constant itch. to fight the desire to scratch. to attack. to rip his flesh from him. he could not wait to be home. free from the shirt. free to deal with the bite. to cool it. to tame it.

back at his screen the manager was not happy. 

‘what the hell are you playing at? your productivity is down thirty percent. you keep leaving your station.’

‘i have a bite on my neck. it’s hurting.’

‘a bite? that’s causing all the fuss? get over it. and there’s something else. there have been complaints.’

‘complaints?’

‘yes. apparently you smell. smell bad. or something. sort yourself out. go home. take a shower. you’ll have to work two extra hours tomorrow to make up time. deal with your little bite. tomorrow back to work as normal. presentable. or you’re gone.’

the manager scowled in the video box. the bite itched. throbbed under his collar.

when he got home he rushed upstairs to the bedroom. tie off. shirt off. to the bathroom. the bite on his neck was noticeably bigger. much bigger. the size of a 5p coin. red and sore. he ran cold water over a flannel and put it on his neck. monetary relief. then the pain bit back. harsher. hotter. stabbing. he took the flannel off. peering at his neck. the bite had a yellow head. the colour of yoke. it seemed to pulse. move. he took the thumb and index finger of his right hand and squeezed. it was excruciating pain but he continued. the head popped. puss shot out. liquid yellow. some hitting the mirror. it smelt. it smelt of pine sap and trees. of damp wooden places. a thick heavy smell. suffocating.

the yellow puss was gone. a clear fluid leaked out. down his neck. down his chest. then something else. something white. it wasn’t puss. it was white. pointed. poking out the skin. pale flesh coloured. it seemed to be moving. wriggling from side to side. a tail. poking out. out of his flesh. out of his neck.

horrified. he ran to the bathroom cupboard. frantically searching for tweezers. he wanted it out. he wanted it out now. he found them. under the bandages. silver. small. peering in the mirror. he took the tweezers and pinched tightly at the end. it wasn’t soft. it was tough like gristle. there was a searing pain down his neck like hot metal. he pulled. pulled hard. the pain in his neck intensified. he gritted his teeth. the white was coming from his neck. pale worm like. twitching. strong smell of sap. forests. he pulled more. it twisted and turned. trying to break free. it was about the size of his little finger. but it would not come. it was fighting to stay. something was clinging on. clinging on inside. refusing to let go. he gritted his teeth tighter. psyching himself up. it had to come out. it couldn’t stay. he had come so far. just the end to come. just the end. one last big, sharp pull. that would sort it. he gritted his teeth more. the gristly worm twisting in the tweezers. he pulled. there was a scream. a white twisting form. a lump of flesh.

moment 13

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last night i ate sea urchin. it tasted of the ocean. the body soaked with the tears of whales crying for the lost of their children. the warm fur of a white seal pup before it meets its end to the hand of cruelty. the plastic embrace of a shopping bag around the throat of an artic tern. the urchin cried for its fish brothers. never more would they dart between its feelers searching for food. it whispered to me of lost porpoises trapped in nets raping the sea. it told of sharks too fearful to leave the sunken ships of death’s folly. i heard the boast of old sailors swapping trinklets for lives. i stopped a moment and put the chopsticks down. then ordered another item from the menu. one without the bitter taste.

Moment 57

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Almost night. The light dims. The time when the big ones sleep. It is your time. Time to rise and stretch. Take a bite. A drink. To explore. A garden of possibilities.
Not star dark yet.
You sniff the air. Feel the night breeze on your face. Stroking you. A distant sound. Dog calling. Too distant for trouble. A jump. A gymnast on a bar. You dance along. Instinct.
Then sit.
This will be the last time. You feel it. In your paws. In your bones. The coming of the end. No more to watch the flight of falling stars. No more to search among the ground for the exciting. You think back to the loves. The wars. They are gone now. Only you remain.
Silver at your ears. Watching the days. But this the last. No more.
The end of nine.

This came about thinking of a twilight memory. It struck me it would be more interesting if it wasn’t a human but an animal thinking of their life. I chose second person as I wanted to put the reader into the body of the animal. To become the animal. To make them closer to the animal. To increase empathy. I think it works.

Moment 12

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Last night I ate sea urchin. It tasted of the ocean. The body soaked with the tears of whales crying for the loss of their children. The warm fur of a white seal pup before it meets its end at the hand of cruelty. The plastic embrace of a shopping bag around the throat of an arctic tern. It cried for its fish brothers that nevermore would dart between its feelers searching for food. It whispered to me of lost porpoises trapped in nets raping the sea. It told of sharks too fearful to leave the sunken ships of death’s folly. I heard the boasts of old sailors swapping trinkets for lives. I stopped a moment and put the chopsticks down. Then ordered another item from the menu. One without the bitter taste.

This came about after going to a restaurant and trying sea urchin for the first time. It got me thinking about how we abuse the sea, the plastics and rubbish littered there, and the depletion of fish numbers as well as other mammals.

contentment

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ball of contentment
sweet dreaming of warm log fires
and a little mouse

This poem came about because I was trying out different poetry forms. I like poems with clear structures that constrain you but at the same time free you as you don’t have to worry about how many stanzas you are going to use, or what rhyme pattern you are going to go to battle with. This poem is obviously about my cat and how content he looked settle on my lap before a winter’s fire.