A really big dalmatian.

After a wonderful day of wondering I sat and watched the people come and go on the ring-bahn. I watched this encounter with a smile, but, understanding few of the actual words exchanged, I have related it as I imagined it may happen in England.

A man and a woman meet on a train. The man has a giant dalmatian with red soggy eyes which lies across the aisle juggling its’ jowls. The woman enters the carriage two stops after the man, though she has been on this train since the morning; up and down four times already half-heartedly selling her magazines.

She gives her speech in a voice resigned to the deaf eyes of commuters and tourists then sits down without checking if anyone is interested. They are not.  She is wearing a dress which feathers out beneath her coat and it flutters attractively as she pats her foot, not impatiently, to the sound of the rails.

She seems at home and now, unburdened of her purpose, she looks around at her fellow passengers as a regular may observe new clientele at a bar.

The dog, which is now at her feet, raises its bigger than human head to look at her across her knees and dribbles.

She laughs unfazed as slobber drips to her shoes.

‘Your dog likes my legs.’ She giggles.

The man, who – despite his shaven head and black attire – is listening to Franz Ferdinand, removes his headphones.

‘Sorry. Is he, bothering you?’ After a pause he adds ‘My dog, I mean.’

‘Nah!’ She laughs, but doesn’t repeat her joke.

‘He’s a big ‘un! Must be a right handful!’ She continues.

‘Aye, you got that right. Lazy as hell as well.’ He is slightly surprised by his rhyme and looks down at the dog, ruffling its short fur.

‘Eat like lion though does he?’ She bends down and wiggles her nose at the beast.

‘Sorry?’ He is momentarily distracted by her twitching nose. ‘Oh, yeah. He could keep Maccy D’s in business with the amount he gets through!’

She laughs again, tilting and shaking her head at the animal.

‘Oh shit.’ He notices the dribble still swaying from the dogs mouth and takes a packet of lavender kleenex from his pocket to dab it away. His eyes dart quickly to her legs then wince back as he notices the unmistakable baubles of canine spit on her shoes. His hand pauses for a minute, drawn to this meeting of  attractive stranger and a saliva he almost sees as his own, then snatches back to stow the kleenex back in his leather pocket.

She watches him, seeing only his affection for his dog. She smiles at the ugly thing. Unnecessarily big, incapable, lazy and probably greedy, but loved.

She looks out of the window for the first time in  years and feels her face glow in the afternoon sun.

Then the train eases itself into the next station and she jumps up, her skirt tickling the dogs brow.

She nods at the man. ‘See ya.’

He smiles back, ‘yeah…’

His eyes flicker to her magazines. They both look down and her face glows again as she weaves into the next carriage.

The man pats his dog roughly and watches the city go by for three stops before replacing Franz Ferdinand to his not so deaf ears.

‘

Moody moody.

In psychiatric wards they use creative writing to help the patients express their emotions. One exercise they give is to imagine your mood as an animal. As my current situation somewhat resembles – to me at least – such a ward, I thought i’d give it a go.

The gorilla waits for his mid morning banana. He knows he could go and get it for himself but he doesn’t; he sits where he’s sat since the day he arrived at the zoo. To pass the time before the keeper arrives with his banana he picks at the dirt with his clipped fingernails. He sieves the earth for rocks which he throws, lamely, at a post at the other end of his enclosure. As he does this he stares ahead.  Ten meters in front of him is the northern edge of his captivity and it is marked by a long glass wall stretched round the internal section of his cage. In the early mornings, when the sun peeks through the bars, he is observed by his own reflection rather than visitors. Then in the evenings, when the lights go on inside, his audience are lit up like gawping iguanas. At these times he turns to the left to face the outside; watching the clouds change colour – but not lightness, the clouds are always dark. During the day his eyes slump on the television screen in the ‘gorilla room’ which flicks through photos of his ‘life in the wild’ and arbitrary facts about his ‘endangered habitat’.  He watches this for no more reason than it is familiar and it seems to justify – to the others at least – his current state of extinction. When his banana arrives he eats it in one, and waits for the next.

Crumbs

Crouched below a castle bare; 
Hidden, is a painted lair
From which our young dreamer does stare
To her horizons squinted glare.

Skipping down the measured steps
This shy maiden soon forgets
Her smiling dolls, their soft ringlets,
The toffee pie, and many pets.

An unkempt land ahead is seen,
Just a haze, in futures gleam,
Shadowed by the gentle past
Which makes this world seem more a dream.

Striding forth in daylight's cold,
Now warmed by neither new or old,
Cautious yet we see her bold,
Anticipating all she may behold,
Biting lip in mind of gold.

And soon behind her we must trace
For she must lead in times cruel race,
And thus she grows with every pace
With flowing hair and thoughtful face.

Like snowflakes, light begins to rest,
Dappled like a rivers crest
On her soft goose pimpled breast
Which tempts her from the sheltered west.

To the mountains does she stumble,
Beneath her feet the soil does crumble,
Over molehills does she tumble,
With her laces does she fumble.

The fields now sometimes seem less bare,
Although before not quite aware
And thus before without a care
Of what was here and what was there.

Ahead a forest, now she spies,
And such trees she thinks are wise,
So tall they stretch her fresh young eyes,
Tempting her to climb, and pick their lies.

But no canopy does her surround,
Nor can branches here be found,
But a church bell afore does sound
Which beckons to the higher ground.

Scattering leaves in her hurry,
Thoughts of treetops fall in flurry
Around her, others seem to scurry
In the chaos the cross stands sturdy.

Watching closely the many feet,
So she might pick up their beat,
With sweaty psalms, does each man greet
Like greedy lambs does each voice bleat.

But though she tries to keep in line
She loses patience with such slow time,
Can't help but think outside their rhyme
Still seeks a deeper crag to climb. 

Stilettos and a safety pin

She was 25 but her eyes were creased and her skin was tough. Her shoes didn’t fit, the gravel teased her toes through the thin soles but she’d be fired if she took them off. As her lungs filled with cold smoke there was a laugh and a shimmer of blue silk stumbled out from the main door. An overweight woman on stilettos tottered towards her across the wet ground, recoiling slightly as she noticed the blank faced waitress observing her from the darkness. The waitress watched the powdered face as the fire from a lighter made it glow. The eyes were drunk, the lipstick smudged, the diamonds real. They smoked in silence. A cloud passed across the moon and both women shivered.
‘Bloody stillettos.’ The woman in diamonds bent to loosen the straps of her shoes and the seam on her dress gave way and ripped down her back.
‘Fuck.’
The waitress didn’t try to hide her snort.
‘Funny ?’ The woman stubbed out her cigarette ‘Well aren’t you going to give me a hand?’
The dress had slipped, revealing over tightened bra straps and sun damaged shoulders.
The polish lady snorted again and looked away.
‘I can’t go back in there like this, for gods sake.’ Her hair fell out from its tight bun, graying roots cutting a crude line round her scalp.
The woman with no makeup slowly turned her head.
‘What can I do? I have no needle, you want me to fix your dress with cigarette, eh?’
Dismissing the idea with her untapped fag.
The lady in the torn dress winced and muttered;
‘What are you doing out here anyway? you’re not being paid to smoke and stare at the moon, if you can’t help me go and find someone who can.’
The waitress tightened her apron before walking back in through the kitchen. As she passed a window she frowned at her reflection. All she saw was bored resignation. She took a safety pin from a box next to the pile of white tablecloths and went back outside.
The moon had been rubbed out of the sky, leaving a smudge in the clouds.
‘Do you know why they make you wear black? Its so you disappear, so you don’t taint our party.’ Slurred the fat lady holding together her dress with one hand, smoking with the other. She still stood awkwardly though she had removed her heels.
Without the moon the dress looked black. The coarse fingers of the waitress delicately pinned the tear together. She paused, handling the fabric. Fabric like grease. She felt the hostile pull of the shoulders. The safety pin twinkled seductively. Then she noticed the tag, still attached by the label, tucked into the sleeve. She smiled, biting her lip.
‘Hey lady, you’ve left your tag on, you want me to cut it off?’
She had a slightly American edge to her accent.
‘NO! I mean, No, I don’t want those dirty fingers of yours on MY dress any more than they need to be’.
‘You’ll not get your money back with this rip..’
‘Bitch! its not like you own anything, I can’t afford Gucci for every party I go to! At least I get invited, anyway it’s none of your business,’ She trailed off drunkenly.
Before stepping back inside the waitress paused,
‘Get a larger size next time, it may not rip so easily.’
A cars headlights briefly illuminated white, swollen feet stumbling through the night. The safety pin lay among the gravel beside the forgotten shoes.