Monday, January 05, 2009

To be opened up, read, and discarded.

A letter to myself.

Three pit bulls with razor wire barks scream at me, like starved prisoners, behind an iron fence frothing at the meat of me as I pass. I only want to deliver the post, get through without trial, or some yapper priming for my fingers, gnashing at my heels.

The owner of the dogs is a large building of a man, strong lean, with scar and muscle, a face haggard with rage and alcohol. 'Awright...' He sits with his dogs in his garden, looks at me smiles is content. 'Not bad, some weather we're having. Murder hiking up all these closes, in this heat. Somebody's definitely left the oven on!' I reply while eyeing the dogs and move on.

I strain into the sun walking through its heat into another close. On the second floor there sits in the middle of the stair a bucket kit for smoking hash. I move on up the stairs delivering then I walk back down; a group of five young approach the bucket, begin to stone their minds inhaling large potent lungfuls. I watch their pliable minds, play dough for the drug, sooner or later burning into dust.

Back into the heat, I shift my large post bag, stretch my arms up into the space of the sky, with its weight pulling me down, I close my eyes, moan in prayer to the sun. 'I fucking hate stairs: all 1467 of them.' I'm like a woman in distress carrying a filing cabinet on my back, but the job must be done. It's rational, insanely rational, to post the mail, juggling letters like an idiot clown in a circus prelude to hell.

Monkey’s every last one of us, burning in the sun, sagging in the brain department utterly happy splashing in the dregs of ourselves. I'm roasting. Somebody offers me a bottle of chilled water, and they are a miracle. A non-descript unasked gift of a moment. Thank you, Mrs Anonymous someone. I guzzle the chill down the desert of my camel throat. It is a snow ball of ice to me; I finish it off, rapidly.

I march with my steel toe caps and think of Sisyphus. Carrying his rock like it was the meaning of the thing, or a punishment stubborn and convinced, like a man who has finally grasped something of his own dull recurring suffering. An idiot man sitting inside the workings of a clock, with which he is baffled by.

God. I'm delirious with this labyrinth of steps and stairs, and the turmoil of dark closes, the reek of damp dog hair. The presence of the day. I cannot wait to end this mountain. Only to begin again and again climbing this dragon.


Jim Murdoch said...

Good block of poetic prose. I could nit pick but that's all it would be, personal preferences, nothing major. Quite evocative this piece.

The only one thing that I think you might think about is 'bread minds' - it didn't really work for me but I loved the 'climbing the dragon' metaphor at the end.

Put it away for a bit then give it a critical read with a clear mind and send it out there. I think Ink, Sweat & Tears might like it.

McGuire said...

Cheers Jim.

Definitely need to come back to this and iorn it out. There are definitely a few glitches. Parts needing smoothed over and soldified.

I think I'll send the complete version to Ink, Sweat & tears. Without your suggestion I would never know, in fact, do you know of a good directory with a list of these poetry ezines or journals? I have a small back log but nothing major.

Jim Murdoch said...

For mainly poetry: New Pages

For mainly short stories: Duotrope

Dave King said...

This one bowled me over. I did stagger up again at bread minds - didn't suggest anything to me - but like McGuire I must return.

McGuire said...

Changed to 'pliable minds' makes more sense now.

Work to be done.

Appreciate the comments.

The Brokendown Barman said...

ahh the life of a postie eh?? at least yer finished by opening time though!!!! u can spend the giros u stole on a few pints and some pickled eggs. easy life.
my mother tried to make me be a postman, if only to get me off the streets!!

boooo hissssss

McGuire said...

I no longer post. I might go back one day. I loved it in many ways but in others way it was a joke.

We've all experienced late mail, missorted mail, lost mail, but dealing with it day in day out, with arrogant bullying managers with chip franchises on the shoulders, it's hard to endure.

An eye opening experience though, few years worth of fitness to work off yet.

The Brokendown Barman said...

i really hate jumped up F%$&*&S like that.
sorry i cant give you any any real constructive critism, im not a poet or a writer, i do enjoy reading your blogs.
was only joking bout posties by the way!!

Rachel Fox said...

I like 'the meat of me'. Great phrase, perfectly placed, packs a punch. More like that!

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