November 16, 2015by Richard Lyonin Blog0 comments
Hi Dave, Are you enjoying your retirement at present, or what? We received your post card from somewhere in France. Writing a bit hard to read. Did you eat many frogs? I should get on. Regards, Abe OK Bollox, I hope the right side of Yorkshire went well. I had a lovely time with Ron and Della and have been invited back in autumn for cepe picking. Might stay for a while as there’s not much happening here in the great retiree ennui of Siberian style exile. No good complaining about your lack of money ‘cos education will never pay anything but piss nuts and lumpy cold vomit. I don’t care a camel hump who owes an email: me or you? I think my dream like existence in retirement sends me to places only the socially deprived, the long term unemployed or those dependent on social, marooned in sinking estates, inhabit. Or, maybe being buggered in a gay sauna. No, Eton. Now, where did that slip out from? Yours Dave I’m totally fucked, spending most evenings recovering from my day time efforts. Am I too old to go gallivanting to become a stand up comedian? I should have […]
November 15, 2015by Richard Lyonin Blog0 comments
And he’s screaming in the night again, and I’m seven or eight, and the noise wells and fills our tiny flat, and I’ve no thoughts to what our neighbours must be thinking. It goes on and on and on. I’m frightened the ceiling might fall on top of me, his screams shifting an avalanche of plaster: white, heavy, choking and breath ending. Were the final memories in my life to be the crashing and splintering of plaster, with Dad’s pained voice, his mouth a volcano, threatening to engulf the living daylights from me? I pee myself again and place my head beneath the blankets. There until the morning, when I thought it was safe to emerge from my cavernous under world of damp safety, I lay hidden. Then Mum started on me: another slap and more tears. I can’t repeat what she’d say to me. I want to, but find it impossible. It would be no more possible than holding my hands up to a gale, capturing it in my palms, an’ pushing down my pockets for safe keeping. I don’t want to remember those times in any detail: I’ve lived it and that’s enough for me. It’s what it […]
November 15, 2015by Richard Lyonin Blog0 comments
She was a dreamer who wanted another person to make them real. Expecting my Dad to love her, carry her, cushion her from the unpleasantries of normal life she lacked the guts to confront. He couldn’t. Not then. Too many other things, real unpleasantries crowded his mind for attention. Why is that dreams cause so much trouble? I mean, they don’t exist in the world I live in, do they: or maybe they do in yours? They inhabit that stuff your skull protects, and even then only when you sleep, yet there was my Dad and my Mum, having glorious dreams of a love happy ever after life. A never ending something that turned sour when they awoke from their slumbering dreams. But they thought it was real enough to bring me into the world they imagined was forever. It never felt like that for me: honest. Did I have some foreboding, some sixth sense that life would go pear shaped and that Dad and me would be left to fend for ourselves? The old man didn’t, that’s for sure. And me: would you believe me if I admitted that even as a young kid I sensed life would be […]
November 07, 2014by Richard Lyonin Blog0 comments
wasteland acres and acres black and white grained faded old looked at me photographs showcased opposite Brandenburg’s Gate denoted before modernity the city’s edge then a wall segmented constructed ugly violent brutal separated east from west humanity from humanity divided the soul’s hemisphere as a brain is both left and right cells trillions of currency in denominations too many to name as crosses mark and identify those killed jumping from east to west from right to left filled the waste to prove a point Checkpoint Charlie a global till dispensed cash no questions asked now what for us remains? people mill cars roar lights blink red green to ease the meanderings of pedestrians cameras slung bags shouldered gawp at could this have been a war would millions have died for this space vacuum at the heart of power politics the Reichstag was dreams glistened in plastic a recent memory an old aberration lacerated by rain’s damp clouds pock marked in a frenzied nightmare before awakening most now filled some remain sole reminders as graffiti Russian Cyrillic etched into stone we queued orderly through the glass portcullis slipped open crossed into history totally refurbished and walked […]
October 13, 2014by Richard Lyonin Blog0 comments
Darlinks Do the gig man’s oriface wearing zanyness, shirt slanging floosy and odd colored espredildos. Emails are like the peas you have eaten off a plate – can’t remember how money were masticated nor if they all had individual names, or merely a connecting descriptive noun to communicate them into wholly cat-logism their past particles. Three skins for Hummous the popular Middle Eastern spread. Say not Ham-as to a terroristic they meat be offeled and beget angrifications. Speak twatish like me in your gigalations and cheque the balanced re-pontiousness. And will Hummous wimmin be give a mendicap for whoring a long burk and sides? Durlings, you no I unt brilliant … Me susspec yer missus Helen is out to cut off your thrubbing manly rod ‘cos you have not satiscum her tartly fuckbitions. Lengthen herb eggstaticpectations till she bescreeeches in writhful joy and tremulouse origamism. Let her pecksniff your noble skidding marx and engle out her breast beatens unto your clamarous palmdung finger bones. Then, as the lord doth say, suckle the lamb to lie with the clothless loin and corrigate her pimply cliterhose. Friends; don’t be over-whored by numericals, ’tis forever qualitit that cunteth. Don’t create false eggspictations by […]
October 08, 2014by Richard Lyonin Blog0 comments
Sir Morton’s alleged peccadilloes were no longer newsworthy and thus our honoured hero was eternally grateful. Accordingly, his contacts with appropriate society figures became more open and extensive allowing a gradual rehabilitation. An exclusive, expensive public relations company was contracted to place favourable copy with the specialist press and quality Sundays, extolling Sir Morton’s positive achievements, including corporate fund raising. All to be capped, in the grand scheme of things, by an exclusive television slot on the regional news roundup. The vehicle in the campaign to restore his tarnished image was the opening of a safe house for youngsters who’d fled the drab austerity of northern conurbations to find employment and excitement in the metropolis. Alas, streets once paved with gold were now caltrapped by cardboard boxes.Wherein once expensive electronic commodities had been wrapped and dispatched from the mysterious orient, derelict bodies slept in after their search for wealth had floundered on the good rock apathy.
October 05, 2014by Richard Lyonin Blog0 comments
Sun rise, redness glows, larger than previously. By a stream they washed, drank cool cleanness, a small fish swims past. Arrow and partner took off, one banked right, one banked left. Ascended so swiftly the children couldn’t distinguish them. They waited, but not immobile, walked slowly about, scanned all directions, took advantage of their clearing, climbed a tree, sought better views. Noise now attached itself to the dust, a distant rumble, deep, broken apart by other sounds – higher pitched, buzzing. Children agog, half fear, half anticipation: what army was this? Where did they come from, where were they going, how large could it be? The noise getting sharper, more droning, clearly louder. Arrow and her partner circled from out of nowhere and flew in front of us – we followed. Now together, one leading, one dropping back, alternatively diving and climbing, forever changing position, but always forward: towards the plume rising mixed colours of pearl haze, green and blue.