vast

in the distance there is a lonely hut. barely visible amongst the pine trees. a plume of smoke rises from its chimney. the man watches the smoke as it goes up and merges with the gathering clouds. the smell reaches him and an image flashes behind his closed eyelids. a kitchen. a door. a figure walking out.

fleeting

after the man left the cafe and his memories behind he drove along an empty road curving up towards the mountains. on the top he could see white snow and the scent of pine seeped into the horizon. sometimes the man just has to disappear like that. he thinks it's got something to do with his being a man. a primal instinct. driving him away from the things he loves so that he doesn't hurt them. escaping the fists. the contorted face. the tense jugular. all these things he sees in the mirror and doesn't want to be him but knows it is. it's stupid, of course. you're always the only person you can't run away from. who said that? some clever clogs. clever clogs. clever. clogs. she would've said that. some clever clogs. a smile spreads across the man's face and he pushes on. upwards. dreaming already of the drive back.

a joke

one day there were lying on the bed after some intensely weird lovemaking when his stomach rumbled and brought them out of their spell.

delicately

like a bird she unfolds herself out of her wet clothes. flashback. ignore flashback. put the clothes in the bin. everything normal. get a pen out of the mug on the bookcase. she traces the shape of her collarbone with the felt tip. all the way round her shoulder, down her arm. she looks in the mirror, again. the lines are clear and precise, black on white. well, at least now she knows she's still there. here. put dry clothes on. notice how the pen smudges against the clean silk. just a little. everything normal. smudges, lines, dots running away.

at the cafe by the road

he felt a pain in the side of his body. a lost spear must have found its way there. a spear inlaid with ice blue sapphires and covered in thin white gold. it's been a while since hunger. it's been a while. he looks at the offerings and keeps the feelings down. down boy. back into your cave. the girl has a sweaty face and tired breasts. she gives him coffee and eggs and toast and all things good. he stares ahead out of the window back at the road staring at him. staring quietly and persistently. come on, she says, come back and it will all be fine.

blink

a thin line of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, down her chin. she stared at it with stupid eyes into the mirror. brushed it off with the side of her hand and licked the red smudge slowly and deliberately. he's not coming back.

dawn

a bird sings a scratchy song not far away. the man shakes the morning slumber and looks up at the leaves in the trees above him. there are greens of all descriptions falling down on him, blurry in the newly accessed brain. brain wakes up. isn't it funny that for all our science we are still divided into heart and mind. no, it's not funny, it's tragic. this is the fact that can not be avoided. fetch some twigs, make a fire, pretend you don't know there is a world out there where things can be connected seemingly. breakfast of gods. just him and the sun. and one day he tried to explain to her how the sun makes this noise at dawn that can be heard above the din of the traffic and the mooing cows. but she didn't understand because she just wanted to love him. and there is such a huge distance between loving and understanding. bollocks. turn the coals this way and that. drink the burnt coffee. get back on the machine. on the road. follow me, him, her. i miss you.

nighttime

he rubbed his eyes as if he wanted to erase the blue in them. tears streaming down, burning the road into his skull. he parked the car on the side of the road, walked out and sat quietly in the dark. looking at his hands, articulating each finger, feeling the muscles under the skin. trying to busy his brain with physical instructions. this man is not thinking about anything. this man hasn't really got a story to tell. this man is alone. this man is not a man.

at the petrol station

stop to feed the monster. a man walks out in overalls covered in dust and smiles. i'm in no mood for conversation. i'm in no mood. i'm nothing. so i smile back. point out the rabbits hopping across the dry landscape. ask if they make a good stew. laugh heartily. heart beating fast. underneath all of this the need to drive away. away from you. him. her. this. everything. pay. smile. go. foot down. this is all i know.

this is the life

the man looked over his shoulder and realised he was alone on the road. he pushed his foot down on the accelerator and reached for the volume control. dorian gray had just won the race at newmarket and the crowd was going mental. next time i might go for it, he thought. a rabbit raced across the highway running away from certain death. an eagle was flying in the distance or maybe it was a vulture, these things didn't matter to him. he thought of the smell of her skin. and of the fact that he was maybe never going to see her again. foot down. feel the wind on your face. the man knows this is it. this is just what dreams are made of. the sound of the car enveloped everything. folded him in. erased his being. gears. petrol. metal. road. if he hadn't left it would all have been too easy. or too complicated. the gods were not smiling at him then. foot down. the smell of dead skunk filters through the memories. cows graze in the distance. there's the first star. the first one here. the last one somewhere else. all tomorrows are somebody's yesterdays. he couldn't remember the colour of the walls. they spent themselves in those things. walls. doors. windows. all gone. boxes empty in a corner. a girl fuzzy against a shower curtain. a thread of water running down her side. foot down. get somewhere. go nowhere. keep moving.