Secret Agent Artist

In Autumn
and in Winter
and on all those
freezing nights of Spring,
when nights still come with fog
descending like a
deconstructed woolen blanket.
When there is
hazy light from moon
turning darkened rooms
to silver-I always think
of IT:

I imagine Steven King’s
Evil Clown in my bed.
curved beneath the covers
like a child but furrowed
with malice and murder
and hate.

I imagine him
in my room
while I’m asleep,
smothering me -
red gash grin
parted over
razored yellow teeth

I always worry
he’ll be waiting in my dreams.
that IT will happen-
in a fashion-
’cause I have
laid the patterns out
and sank their brainwaves
into REM release.

But I never dream of IT.
I only ever see my friends-

hating me,
or leaving me,
or dieing.

As the more observant of you may have observed, my best intentions for NaPoWriMo have come to naught. Now, don’t go thinking I’ve been shirking. Living it up on the Costa Del, or slumming it  in decadent, debauched back street drinking..well, ok, I have been doing the latter a little bit-but I haven’t been enjoying it..not really..and I’ve also been flagellating myself on the altar of Freedom. You know, the showcase…the thing I’m being paid handsomely to write for-and which I am currently failing to do.

It’s all Elizabeth Herrick’s fault. I had my first draft but it needed going over-and now I suspect it’s becoming more and more overworked with every passing stab. I think one of the problems is the historical element. To place it in context and in order for the story to retain its power, I need to include a lot of historical information. But then it risks sounding didactic. However, if I go info light, it makes no sense-as Herrick’s is not exactly a well known story.

I’m getting more and more annoyed with it. Gr. Probably, I’ll start posting up -you know the pieces I’ve been hacking up in private.

If anyone with time could give me constructive crit that would be helpful.

Huff,huff

There’s something about
getting out of bed
in the middle of the night,
at a time when
everyone else in the house,
the block, the street,
the city, the world-
is sleeping.
There’s something about
being the only one awake,
sitting up late, at an hour
so broken down
it’s slipped beyond the zone
in which it could have been
repaired. There’s something about
that conjuring out
of nightworkers-
that you have always done
in that small box
inside your head -
ever since you were a child
and trying to find
some way of coping
with the world being dead-
there’s just something about
all this
that makes you think
of all the brittle shards
of all the broken things,
that you were hoping that you’d
never have to see,
that when you were a child
you hummed to keep away -
that daylight makes so quiet-
that’s stupid as the
artexed ceiling-
as star gazing plaster
at 2 and 3 and 6.
Something
like weather and rainbows
and cancer
that can’t go on much longer.

Throw
a spike heeled stiletto
at a window.
If it is a shatterproof window
follow through
with an axe.

Remove
all your clothing,
starting with the
smallest items first.
Elasticity,
you will find in the bra.

Tie
each item to the last
If you have your
pocket sewing kit
you might like to
strengthen the fabric.

Loop
the end
with the most give
around the window frame-
watching out
for broken glass.

Unfurl
the line of clothes
like all the washing,
choosing, fretting
you will never
have to do again.

Wait
till nightfall-
and look both ways,
before you start
the long climb
down.

Shave off all your hair.
Clip fingernails
to the quick of the moon,
remove all makeup. Next:
Change the way you walk.
Think - Lumberjack. Hip-hop
artist. Man about town
with a brass topped cane.
Switch between
respective templates,
according to the situation
you might find yourself within.
Say: Whasup bitch?
to the nearest individual
when in clubs, bars.
Wolf whistle randomly,
whilst walking down the street.
Stare disaprovingly
at strangers, modelling yourself
on your father, a headmaster
of your imagination. Don’t worry
about not fitting in. Remember:
You can never be too old.
or too aggressive.