Part 3

A dream, at least I think. Twins play tug-of-war. I see with eyes that aren’t mine. The child I was, broken. the man I am dead. Shape shifting bodies and faces, all those that loved all those that didn’t. winter laughter, summer tears. Long forgotten hidden fears, face the dark, the shifting tides. You hold the key, you dwell inside. His blood was on my hands, thick, almost black in colour, like dipping your fingers into warm oil. I was afraid but I didn’t stop. Put away childish things, tear up and throw away your half thought out dreams, you belong to me. I cant look in the mirror, men with beards have something to hide they say. I have nothing to hide, not anymore, nothing to hide except myself…..

“hey, are you ok?”. Fractured broken sounds seeping in. “yeah” I offered, “thanks”. My eyes could barely open but I knew I was outside, the water of the canal swirling slowly around my feet, its rhythm broken by the presence of my dirty shoes. “let me help you up” . I stood, lifted by the unseen hand. The hangover yet to fully kick in, now I was just groggy. Susceptible to suggestion. who was this pervert I thought to myself, this lone stranger lifting up someone who quite obviously wished to die or kill someone in his own vomit? Fuck it some people can be nice, I suppose. “would you like a cigarette”, the voice rang in my ears, almost internal. He lit my smoke. “pull yourself together, I have to go. As you know my friend, there is much to be done.” And like that nothing, I didn’t even get a glimpse, my eyes covered in that seeping green crap, extra strength this time. Strange, strange. “whats your name” I called out, but alas to no avail. These things happen, not to me but these things happen. Im sure he wanted to molest me in some way, ha, impotence strikes again! Back to life again, need coffee, more nicotine and if possible alcohol. I figured if I hung out at the shop street/quay street junction I could do some humiliating jig to earn the price of a bottle of something. Not high tourist season, but then the cure for everything in this country is liquor. They’re not gonna deny me a drop. Shit, they’ll throw it at me, beats talking about your problems. To the bat cave. Im guessing it was around six, the streets were so lively, the pubs starting to crawl. Popping out one door and in the next, phones blaring, meet me in soandso, yeah buyin some for bills after, pick me up a bottle will ya, good man, good girl, I love it when you talk dirty, your fault, my buzz, your round, my suppressed rage itching to get out. They come and go, shifting personalities like shadows on an overcast summers eve. I think I hate them, not who they are really, I mean I don’t know any of them personally. But what they have let themselves become. They are Slaves to their own jealousies and lusts, greed and internal hungers drive them, they lie afraid of the dangers of thought. Me me memememe. Its so hard to care anymore. Its depressing, life turned into death, waking, walking, fucking corpses. Show me your blackened souls. I understand, they remind me of myself. I am weakness fuelled by unfulfilled desire, directionless anger. So yeah, fuck me too. I need a drink. Yeah so I flailed my arms and/or legs around in some unforgivable fashion and harassed the tourists for money, threatening to corrupt their daughters usually works. Theres a certain charm to threats that come from someone seemingly incapable of carrying them out. Like when your little brother says “il kick your ass” punctuated by some ridiculous, obviously made up on the spot kind of insult, poo-brain, or something of that variety. I mean, you laugh don’t you. Its funny. Anyway, they gave me money. Even though, to my mind at least, I was more than capable of corrupting their daughters, wives, hand luggage and cocker spaniels. “Its miller time” said Arthur miller, upon completion of each of his works, and so it was. I counted, poorly. It’s a toss up, cider of the flagon range or more buckfast. I figured later on id hit a few of the bars popular with American tourists of the camera waving assortment, and tell a few stories about my run ins with leprechauns . which reminds me, they’re assholes. Lucky charms my bollocks, although if marinated correctly they make an excellent entrée. Good for parties. Although you have to shave them well, hairy little buggers. Anyway, I digress. Where the hell was I, oh yeah cider or bucky, fizzy head buzz or intensive care unit? Well, I could use a shave, intensive care it is. I want to be chatty for the tourists now don’t I? Again, to the bat cave. Otherwise known as the vineyard, its my headquarters of a sort. One bottle of b, twenty smokes, some diversionary tactics and a pocketed nagon of jameson later and I was on my way. Whiskey first, I wanted to savour it with what operational taste buds I had left. A sip to start, it burns in the best way imaginable. Its like body heat, kissing a lover, food for the soul. I dipped my tired body in this fountain of youth and memories become flames. It coats, protects from the cold, money well spent. On to the bar with my other bottle concealed, nicely. It was early enough that I wouldn’t be stopped. Not that I cared really, I wanted to connect with these abstractions of humanity, to learn and to teach, to listen and to speak. Futility, none wished for my offerings. I passed the doorways of numerous bars, heard the squeal of the garbled instruments within, the idealised speeches about this great nation and thought for a second I was in boston. Armchair republicans who still send their money in support of a disgusting mutation, a cause romanticised just enough to suit their soft boiled brains. Low lie the fields of blood, buy your fucking freedom with thirty pieces of silver and leave me alone. The hell with it, I’d probably just strangle them all and urinate on their store bought teeth. I don’t do small talk anyway, not anymore. Keep on walking, looking for the darkest corner. Snap, click and im there again, the land of fortified wine. A sparked up cigarette and im alone with my thoughts. The stranger returns for a second, there is still work to be done, apparently. I scream into the wind. My voice is lost in countless, unceasing garbling, the miscommunications of the lost and afraid. I take another slug. Settling into a dark corner all I could do was sling my coat over my knees and try to keep acceptably warm. I look through the arch, through squinted eyes I see a dog dragging something/nothing. This semi-translucent amorphous blob, reaches out, takes form and screams. The dog looks into my eyes, and smiles. I feel his words cut into me. We shall meet again. Shaking, I unscrew the lid once more and swallow as much of the drink as I can. I close my eyes, I feel my heart trying to force its way from my chest. The voices of the lonely and the pleas of the forgotten fill my head. Every voice is mine, and they have always been there. Have they damned themselves, had I damned myself…..Winter laughter, summer tears. Long forgotten hidden fears; face the dark, the shifting tides. You hold the key, you dwell inside.