you shouldn't use church to apologise
because you won't mean it
when you're down
find someone else who is
and enjoy it with them
experiment it with them
explore it
make it an art
tears are a fine line
when you're a violent bystander
of your own marriage
open the presents
and then open your mouth
with your heart open
and throw the gift down
because if they really had thought about giving you this
piece of shit
then they're taking so much more
(c) Dave Selby 2010
Tuesday 27 July 2010
Saturday 24 July 2010
you say you missed me
you say you missed me
so how come
every time you say that
i feel like i'm being shot between the eyes
and i feel a sharp shooting pain all down my left hand side
you say i don't say much any more
but when you said that
you were talking over me
you say i don't hold you any more
but if i grabbed you right now
in the way i want to
one of us would be very alone
and the other
very dead
you say we don't make love any more
by making love
do you mean
having a sudden fixation with downing rum
grabbing my crotch in public
looking at me
with your one good eye
and saying
"do you want to do it"
and me saying
"no
that would be more like rape"
you say you missed me
and every time you say that
a bullet marked love
spirals into my face
splinters my skull
and the blood of affection
spurts all over you
(c) Dave Selby 2010
so how come
every time you say that
i feel like i'm being shot between the eyes
and i feel a sharp shooting pain all down my left hand side
you say i don't say much any more
but when you said that
you were talking over me
you say i don't hold you any more
but if i grabbed you right now
in the way i want to
one of us would be very alone
and the other
very dead
you say we don't make love any more
by making love
do you mean
having a sudden fixation with downing rum
grabbing my crotch in public
looking at me
with your one good eye
and saying
"do you want to do it"
and me saying
"no
that would be more like rape"
you say you missed me
and every time you say that
a bullet marked love
spirals into my face
splinters my skull
and the blood of affection
spurts all over you
(c) Dave Selby 2010
the bad thing about your guilt
ltimately it doesn’t matter that you die, but it is important how you die and he didn’t want to die here. An incident with a knife or a stray car and that was how it happened on this side of town. He was more than aware of that. His parents had told him, the necktie wearers at the BBC had told him and the black ink of the newspapers had told him: be afraid. Every hoodie concealed a blade and these pubs on corners contained drink inspired men that laughed as they kicked your head towards brain damage. Sex fiends, paedos, drug users, rapists, murderers and drunkards roamed the tarmac looking for fun, and you and a have-a-go hero would be left face down in a road and maybe be there for a number of days before anybody bothered to identify you.
But this is the side of town you had to be on to make these kinds of purchases. You can’t just stroll into Tescos and get a gun. The painted ladies at the customer services desk were most likely to inform security and that’s not a good start. They have a knack of getting in the way.
A friend of a friend had given him the mobile number, along with a sneering, not knowing look that meant he thought revenge was on the cards and I’m the man who’s going to help sort it out. Prick. He called the number, asked for the item and received a bunch of crackpot, military jargon about what he was requiring it for that he was unable to answer.
“Automatic or semi?” “Pistol or revolver?” “.25 or .32?”
None of this mattered,
“Do you have a gun that will take off the back of a mans head?” He asked.
“Sure thing.”
“Instant Death? Big hole and no chance of living?”
“Sure thing”.
And this was where he’d have to come to get it. To get to death you had to walk through a valley of it and you might not get there, it might get to you first.
27a Staminton Road. First Buzzer. He pressed. No reply came back but the lock clicked and he pushed it open to reveal a steel door. He was in a fucking kook action movie, only here you could smell the piss and there was no soundtrack. A sliding viewer on the door opened and a pair of eyes spoke.
“You John?”
“Yep, although if I wasn’t, surely I’d still say yes.”
There was a pause, “You trying to piss me off John?”
“No.”
“Come in.”
The door opened and the stench of piss got instantly worse, he was glad it was cold out and he could pull his scarf over his mouth. But wasn’t every breath sucking the air into his scarf and impregnating it with foreign urine? He pulled it back down, he was going to have to deal with it. The T.V. was showing cartoons but no children were present, just a white washed brunette in whore fancy dress staring at the apex of the room, probably looking for a way out. It wasn’t up there, and it wasn’t outside those steel doors either. The only real hope she had was to take more drugs and travel around inside her head on them, and when they stop working, she’d still be able to OD.
They went through to the bedroom, although it was more of a storage space for boxes of broken electrical crap and there was no mattress on the bed, just a sorry, slumping, sweat covered divan base, complete with e-z flow air tears. The arms dealer reached rounds some boxes and pulled out a suitcase, opened it and revealed a pile of metal weaponry. He pulled out a revolver with a ridiculously long barrel and strained to keep it upright.
“Maybe something a little…lighter.”
The crook smashed his hand around inside the case and pulled out a small pistol.
“It’s a P99, you could take the bollocks off an elephant with one of these.”
“Why would you do that?”
“You wouldn’t, it’s just a saying isn’t it.”
“I’ve never heard it.”
“Well it’s not… look, do you want to buy a fucking gun or what?”
“Yes.”
“The Walther?”
“The what?”
“THE FUCKING P99, THE FUCKING GUN I JUST SHOWED YOU.”
“Yes, sorry, how much?”
“£500.”
“ok.”
“You not gonna bargain.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s a bit much, it’s only small.”
“Fuck it, I won’t need the money.”
“OK £400, I’ll throw in an extra clip for free.”
“Keep it, I won’t need it.”
He pushed the gun into his inside pocket like he’d seen it done in movies, and moved back through the front room. The girl kept staring upwards.
“She ok?” he asked,
“Probably, who gives a fuck?”
“That’s ok then.”
He let himself out, the security in these places left a lot to be desired. The door might as well be made of rainbows.
Codiene and whisky was his first choice but you have to swallow a hundred of the bastards to get it to work. He’d kept up the stories about back pain at the doctors long enough to work up the required amount, which was a real job, as to get the right strength pills you’ve got to act like your spine was broken in four places in a war and tears have to constantly wet your eyes.
He’d started at them with a real gusto, chomping them down like nachos but eventually the stuff makes you tired and one level above motionless and he passed out. When he woke up his stomach was in agony, but that didn’t matter, the problem was that he had woken up. He didn’t shit for 3 days and when he did it was an experience. It took 16 weeks to get that many pills together and it turned out to be a waste of time. Codiene and whisky was off the list.
Car exhaust and hose pipe was next on the list of acceptable ways to leave. His friends father had done it this way and it was always remarked that when found, he had looked very peaceful. But, he didn’t have a car or a driver’s license. If he went out to buy a car someone was going to figure that something was up and start mooching around. People mooching around can be extremely off putting in these sorts of deals. You only really get one proper pop at this, and if someone mooches across suicide attempts then you’re hanging out with cases up at the loon house, and you’ve got no shoelaces. Also he didn’t have a garage and what if school kicks out. Crossed off.
Next up was slit wrists. He couldn’t figure how anyone could do this, it was too much for him to even touch his wrists firmly. Sure, he was going to die anyway and should probably not be too much of a pussy about it, but when your committing this act it’s normally to escape pain, so why create more. Plus some poor bastard has to break the lock on the bathroom door to find out someone they care about has cut himself open because they didn’t listen enough. Why are people always being so selfish when someone does themself in?
“I should have talked to him more.”
“I could have helped.”
“I should have told him I loved him.”
Piss off, it’s not all about you.
Wouldn’t it be nice for the self-murderer to be relieved of the extra pressure put on him by the foresight of all those future spoken unhappy clichés? Loved ones can really bring you down.
So a gun it was, a last blaze of violent glory. Guns were easy, you didn’t have the problem of losing your commitment. One-second worth of commitment was enough. BANG! Job done. The only problem was when or where. You bump out of favour with a friend one day and do it that night and for all they know, blood is on their hands forever. Do it in a shared house and you’ve ensured the people you lived with that they’re going to get haunted.
“Oh that room…we don’t go in that room.”
Although it’s definitely an option if you hate your housemates. John wasn’t particularly bothered about them either way.
At the age of seven John’s parents had split. He was confined to watching every type of soap opera on the T.V. with his mother and didn’t realise she wasn’t crying about the plot line rather than the divorce until he was ten. Dallas just wasn’t that emotionally involving, but he didn’t question his mothers tears at the time. He’d never had both his parents sharing his time at any point so it never affected him. He had another house to be bored at and another Christmas present he didn’t want.
From early on he had “wanted” to be a writer but spent all his hours drawing cartoon stereotypes of Chinamen and gunmen on skateboards. The underside of his bed was a storage space of single coloured immaturity and nasal detritus. The spare pages of every book he owned were adorned with scribbles and the eyes never greeted anything pre-entered past them.
His mother didn’t know what to do with him and so put no effort into it and his father couldn’t understand why his son had turned out so worthless so called it a day on him.
He was happy though. So much emphasis is put on parenting, but why? Feed them, keep them warm and give them a bed. John was satisfied with this and you’re no better a person than he is; that’s just what people keep telling you. John had no real plan, but when you’re growing up, the adults will insist on wasting your time with the question of what you want to be, so return the compliment with a bull shit answer. Why not be the greatest writer of the future.
The next part of John’s story all happens extremely quickly and therefore there is little need for much detail.
He prepares himself a final meal, choice not important, so go on, pick your own. He puts on the forth movement of Gustav Mahlers fifth symphony and otherwise sits with very little movement or thought at the dinner table. This particular piece of music is twelve minutes long and gives him ample time to enjoy and finish his food a little while before it ends. He presses the off button on the CD player-the fifth movement is not so beautiful- and pulls the plug from the socket. He has set the gun along side the bed, so that he can be relaxed when the time comes. The doorbell rings, and for some dumbfuck reason, John answers the door. It’s the police. They would like to come in. Do they have warrants? Yes they do. John is trembling. He’s suddenly realised he didn’t need to answer the door. His stomach is a ball of hatred for him. The police find the gun. It was next to the bed, why wouldn’t they. John is in handcuffs.
“The judge won’t look kindly on this, oh no.”
“Mind your head”
“You have the right…”
John remains silent. Except for sobs. It didn’t work. It didn’t work. It didn’t fucking work. Why did he answer the door? What should he say? Will they lock him up? Jail or The Home? “You’re a silly lad Mr Williams.” “The judge won’t look kindly on this.” “They’re really stomping down on this kind of thing son.” And he doesn’t know what to say. Why would he, he’s the jackass that opens the door before he does himself in. He’s in a police car. There’s no rain. Why isn’t there rain? Didn’t this deserve some moody weather? No? No.
The judge didn’t look kindly on this sort of thing. The jury were told what opinions to have. The minimum sentence was five years. The judge liked the sound of eight. The sound of eight was repeated. Eight it was. Eight years. Sex fiends, paedos, drug users, rapists, murderers and drunkards in every room. For eight years.
Fortunately this isn’t what happens.
John walks to his room in silence, lies on the bed, picks up the gun, has one last thought about living, decides it’s not an option and pulls the trigger.
Common decency states that you should always leave a note to inform the finder of your empty body of a reason for your leaving, and John isn’t the type to break fashion.
Laid on his chest is an A4 piece of paper that reads in bold marker:
“GOT BORED”
(c) Dave Selby 2010
But this is the side of town you had to be on to make these kinds of purchases. You can’t just stroll into Tescos and get a gun. The painted ladies at the customer services desk were most likely to inform security and that’s not a good start. They have a knack of getting in the way.
A friend of a friend had given him the mobile number, along with a sneering, not knowing look that meant he thought revenge was on the cards and I’m the man who’s going to help sort it out. Prick. He called the number, asked for the item and received a bunch of crackpot, military jargon about what he was requiring it for that he was unable to answer.
“Automatic or semi?” “Pistol or revolver?” “.25 or .32?”
None of this mattered,
“Do you have a gun that will take off the back of a mans head?” He asked.
“Sure thing.”
“Instant Death? Big hole and no chance of living?”
“Sure thing”.
And this was where he’d have to come to get it. To get to death you had to walk through a valley of it and you might not get there, it might get to you first.
27a Staminton Road. First Buzzer. He pressed. No reply came back but the lock clicked and he pushed it open to reveal a steel door. He was in a fucking kook action movie, only here you could smell the piss and there was no soundtrack. A sliding viewer on the door opened and a pair of eyes spoke.
“You John?”
“Yep, although if I wasn’t, surely I’d still say yes.”
There was a pause, “You trying to piss me off John?”
“No.”
“Come in.”
The door opened and the stench of piss got instantly worse, he was glad it was cold out and he could pull his scarf over his mouth. But wasn’t every breath sucking the air into his scarf and impregnating it with foreign urine? He pulled it back down, he was going to have to deal with it. The T.V. was showing cartoons but no children were present, just a white washed brunette in whore fancy dress staring at the apex of the room, probably looking for a way out. It wasn’t up there, and it wasn’t outside those steel doors either. The only real hope she had was to take more drugs and travel around inside her head on them, and when they stop working, she’d still be able to OD.
They went through to the bedroom, although it was more of a storage space for boxes of broken electrical crap and there was no mattress on the bed, just a sorry, slumping, sweat covered divan base, complete with e-z flow air tears. The arms dealer reached rounds some boxes and pulled out a suitcase, opened it and revealed a pile of metal weaponry. He pulled out a revolver with a ridiculously long barrel and strained to keep it upright.
“Maybe something a little…lighter.”
The crook smashed his hand around inside the case and pulled out a small pistol.
“It’s a P99, you could take the bollocks off an elephant with one of these.”
“Why would you do that?”
“You wouldn’t, it’s just a saying isn’t it.”
“I’ve never heard it.”
“Well it’s not… look, do you want to buy a fucking gun or what?”
“Yes.”
“The Walther?”
“The what?”
“THE FUCKING P99, THE FUCKING GUN I JUST SHOWED YOU.”
“Yes, sorry, how much?”
“£500.”
“ok.”
“You not gonna bargain.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s a bit much, it’s only small.”
“Fuck it, I won’t need the money.”
“OK £400, I’ll throw in an extra clip for free.”
“Keep it, I won’t need it.”
He pushed the gun into his inside pocket like he’d seen it done in movies, and moved back through the front room. The girl kept staring upwards.
“She ok?” he asked,
“Probably, who gives a fuck?”
“That’s ok then.”
He let himself out, the security in these places left a lot to be desired. The door might as well be made of rainbows.
Codiene and whisky was his first choice but you have to swallow a hundred of the bastards to get it to work. He’d kept up the stories about back pain at the doctors long enough to work up the required amount, which was a real job, as to get the right strength pills you’ve got to act like your spine was broken in four places in a war and tears have to constantly wet your eyes.
He’d started at them with a real gusto, chomping them down like nachos but eventually the stuff makes you tired and one level above motionless and he passed out. When he woke up his stomach was in agony, but that didn’t matter, the problem was that he had woken up. He didn’t shit for 3 days and when he did it was an experience. It took 16 weeks to get that many pills together and it turned out to be a waste of time. Codiene and whisky was off the list.
Car exhaust and hose pipe was next on the list of acceptable ways to leave. His friends father had done it this way and it was always remarked that when found, he had looked very peaceful. But, he didn’t have a car or a driver’s license. If he went out to buy a car someone was going to figure that something was up and start mooching around. People mooching around can be extremely off putting in these sorts of deals. You only really get one proper pop at this, and if someone mooches across suicide attempts then you’re hanging out with cases up at the loon house, and you’ve got no shoelaces. Also he didn’t have a garage and what if school kicks out. Crossed off.
Next up was slit wrists. He couldn’t figure how anyone could do this, it was too much for him to even touch his wrists firmly. Sure, he was going to die anyway and should probably not be too much of a pussy about it, but when your committing this act it’s normally to escape pain, so why create more. Plus some poor bastard has to break the lock on the bathroom door to find out someone they care about has cut himself open because they didn’t listen enough. Why are people always being so selfish when someone does themself in?
“I should have talked to him more.”
“I could have helped.”
“I should have told him I loved him.”
Piss off, it’s not all about you.
Wouldn’t it be nice for the self-murderer to be relieved of the extra pressure put on him by the foresight of all those future spoken unhappy clichés? Loved ones can really bring you down.
So a gun it was, a last blaze of violent glory. Guns were easy, you didn’t have the problem of losing your commitment. One-second worth of commitment was enough. BANG! Job done. The only problem was when or where. You bump out of favour with a friend one day and do it that night and for all they know, blood is on their hands forever. Do it in a shared house and you’ve ensured the people you lived with that they’re going to get haunted.
“Oh that room…we don’t go in that room.”
Although it’s definitely an option if you hate your housemates. John wasn’t particularly bothered about them either way.
At the age of seven John’s parents had split. He was confined to watching every type of soap opera on the T.V. with his mother and didn’t realise she wasn’t crying about the plot line rather than the divorce until he was ten. Dallas just wasn’t that emotionally involving, but he didn’t question his mothers tears at the time. He’d never had both his parents sharing his time at any point so it never affected him. He had another house to be bored at and another Christmas present he didn’t want.
From early on he had “wanted” to be a writer but spent all his hours drawing cartoon stereotypes of Chinamen and gunmen on skateboards. The underside of his bed was a storage space of single coloured immaturity and nasal detritus. The spare pages of every book he owned were adorned with scribbles and the eyes never greeted anything pre-entered past them.
His mother didn’t know what to do with him and so put no effort into it and his father couldn’t understand why his son had turned out so worthless so called it a day on him.
He was happy though. So much emphasis is put on parenting, but why? Feed them, keep them warm and give them a bed. John was satisfied with this and you’re no better a person than he is; that’s just what people keep telling you. John had no real plan, but when you’re growing up, the adults will insist on wasting your time with the question of what you want to be, so return the compliment with a bull shit answer. Why not be the greatest writer of the future.
The next part of John’s story all happens extremely quickly and therefore there is little need for much detail.
He prepares himself a final meal, choice not important, so go on, pick your own. He puts on the forth movement of Gustav Mahlers fifth symphony and otherwise sits with very little movement or thought at the dinner table. This particular piece of music is twelve minutes long and gives him ample time to enjoy and finish his food a little while before it ends. He presses the off button on the CD player-the fifth movement is not so beautiful- and pulls the plug from the socket. He has set the gun along side the bed, so that he can be relaxed when the time comes. The doorbell rings, and for some dumbfuck reason, John answers the door. It’s the police. They would like to come in. Do they have warrants? Yes they do. John is trembling. He’s suddenly realised he didn’t need to answer the door. His stomach is a ball of hatred for him. The police find the gun. It was next to the bed, why wouldn’t they. John is in handcuffs.
“The judge won’t look kindly on this, oh no.”
“Mind your head”
“You have the right…”
John remains silent. Except for sobs. It didn’t work. It didn’t work. It didn’t fucking work. Why did he answer the door? What should he say? Will they lock him up? Jail or The Home? “You’re a silly lad Mr Williams.” “The judge won’t look kindly on this.” “They’re really stomping down on this kind of thing son.” And he doesn’t know what to say. Why would he, he’s the jackass that opens the door before he does himself in. He’s in a police car. There’s no rain. Why isn’t there rain? Didn’t this deserve some moody weather? No? No.
The judge didn’t look kindly on this sort of thing. The jury were told what opinions to have. The minimum sentence was five years. The judge liked the sound of eight. The sound of eight was repeated. Eight it was. Eight years. Sex fiends, paedos, drug users, rapists, murderers and drunkards in every room. For eight years.
Fortunately this isn’t what happens.
John walks to his room in silence, lies on the bed, picks up the gun, has one last thought about living, decides it’s not an option and pulls the trigger.
Common decency states that you should always leave a note to inform the finder of your empty body of a reason for your leaving, and John isn’t the type to break fashion.
Laid on his chest is an A4 piece of paper that reads in bold marker:
“GOT BORED”
(c) Dave Selby 2010
the sun
the sun came up
it always does
clouds cleared
you looked around
and everything was
beautiful
the landscape seemed
green again
the birds sang
a little louder
people smiled
you walked easier
then it set
the moon came up
it always does
(c) Dave Selby 2009
it always does
clouds cleared
you looked around
and everything was
beautiful
the landscape seemed
green again
the birds sang
a little louder
people smiled
you walked easier
then it set
the moon came up
it always does
(c) Dave Selby 2009
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