Where do I sit if there isn’t a seat?

Where do I sit if there isn’t a seat,
Your lap of ice with a moth-like sheet?
It  powders me with a fine silver dust;
Shift along, I can make do for now
this space is enough for a finite end.
Absurdly distant you make waves
over me, while arguing for God.
Casually restrained and precise,
Articulate even, but not nice,
a Net Present Value with a discount
for evil is no argument for death.
Once we sat in the sun, a train
Came and soon you waged war.
I remember we talked, Darlington
Ninety seven, your wings’ silvery
mark is on me and millions more.


Dec 13th, 14th and 24th 2010

Maybe chapter 1?

Strangely idealistic despite a record of under achievement Marcus still believed that he could make a success of life. Proud of the transition he had made he’d become a faithful man limiting his indiscretions to thoughts and gazes, but this self imposed discipline did not make him content. Moreover he now found it difficult to relate easily to others, well aware that his past had been the cause of unhappiness and that some including his daughters had not been able to express their disappointment in him for fear of doing further damage, the removal of lechery from his behaviour did not mean that the intent was not there and this disparity between desire and action created a nervous intensity in him that barred easy company. At an age when he should have been putting lust behind him one or two of his friends’ partners or chance acquaintances attracted him so that he couldn’t easily look them in the eye. It is as if some residual tenderness remained toward life and though he was never one to be afraid of being alone Marcus maintained a longing for the intimacy of others.


The little restaurant business that Marcus ran with his wife Sharon had a small but loyal band of regulars and a steady stream of tourists in the summer but its heyday had passed and despite some good reviews and fabulous evenings in earlier years its lifecycle had moved into its period of decline. Each week paying suppliers or creditors became a test of disingenuous virtuosity, missing a phone call to avoid a lie, persuading customers to pay in cash, giving chefs post dated cheques. Marcus was well aware that they were living on borrowed time but would still be generous with portions or a small whiskey at the end of a successful evening for his favourites. Late in the evening with heels burning it was particularly enjoyable to open one of the better bottles from the small but well chosen list and share a glass with the waiting staff. The opportunity to be suggestive with the young women who waited for money and had no love of food or service or to engage in cod philosophy with the odd well educated and interesting young man that fell into his temporary employ seldom passed Marcus by. The beautiful and the intelligent amongst these young people helped Marcus to forget much.

He would usually leave around eleven during the week or approaching one in the morning at the weekend. In the warm summer months he would often walk through the pleasantly safe streets of town stopping at the steps of the cathedral to sit and listen to the buskers who entertained groups of scruffily loitering foreign language students who stayed out making the most of warm nights close in character to those they would experience at home. On nights like these Marcus felt most alone, alienated by age he could only gain comfort from the repetitiveness of his isolation. The cathedral precinct was broad and surrounded by stone and the brick rented homes of those who hoped for secure tenure. Nearby Sharon would be asleep or lying in bed worrying about monetary problems that existed but which she habitually avoided. Although Marcus maintained his belief in eventual success, if not with the restaurant with some other endeavour she was of the opinion that bankruptcy, her many affairs and an essentially dysfunctional family were not the foundations on which happiness was built.

Marcus gazed out across the grass and through the medieval stone tracery and asked what would become of him if he kept up this routine. Avoiding home and pursuing a fantasy for the last twelve nights he’d waited until he was sure everyone had gone home or at least the timbre of approaching footsteps indicated that he would have sufficient warning of potential discovery before he vaulted the fence. The fence was black with a patina underpinned by decades of layered paint and it separated the secular streets from the locked cathedral garden. Behind the garden lay another fence and two rows of houses large and small, timeless in their protective cocoon. Crossing over yesterday at a little after twelve, close to an adjoining wall in the shadows his ankle had been scored by many jagged thorns of a rose bush. Tonight the scabs were tight, stretching the connected skin and each movement of his foot caused him to wince.