Mass

We always go to Midnight Mass. This year it finished at two in the morning. The Bishop gave a long sermon on concupiscence, lechery and greed. The streets are so dark, Aunt J walked straight into a wall and fainted. We carry her light body to the house. Mother brings her a glass of brandy which will never again leave Aunt's hands.

The Bishop likes to surround himself with spinsters adorned with nubile nieces. He defends the poor and sows his oats amongst his flock

Wall

 A wallpaper of generals covers the streets of the town. We surf the city on board an old tramway. The rail station opens and we are waiting in the cafe. The days are bright and Our Mother sings to heaven. We pray in the morning and in the afternoon. She has a black book full of promises. Money never arrives on time. She declares we must think about the future and what to do to earn the pennies. To each what can be done best. We all look at our Sister and we know her destiny.

They say if you know the past you understand the present

They say this is all there is

They say there is nothing new under the sun

they say there is a time a for everything

they say we are cursed from the day we were born

they say our friends will betray us

they say loneliness is waiting for us round the corner

they say they will never leave us alone

and minute later they go and die on us .

Practice

Cousin practices the piano mute. We play in the afternoon in silence. Mother abhors disturbances, noises, interruptions. Only her steps can be heard. Father breathes in small bouts. From time to time one of us is summoned for punishment on account of unameable crimes of which we know nothing, but  like the first sin, they stick to our skin. They can never be redeemed. Our blood mingles with the earth. The sun shines high and after a while we continue playing as before.

The son of the architect lies strewn on a heap of rubbish

She was killed on a Friday afternoon. Father did not dare to go. I had to. We went, the gardener and I, down to the old house. Blood on the stairs, the walls, everywhere or so it felt. The bed, unmade stared at us, asking what we were doing there. The gardener started cleaning, I just walked around. I had not been to the house since I was five. She did not want to talk to us any more.

Silence has insinuated itself to every pore of the house (She can curse us no more). In the kitchen, a few lonely cups await their fate. The fridge is grand and new. We are inside it. All of us, every single one of us.

 

Nightland

Marooned in Nightland I dream of my unborn son, half man half snake coiling itself around my entrails. I wail in silence, throw myself against the walls and down the stairs to no avail.

Sit down and do not breathe cannot stand the noise don’t look don’t say.

Swollen skies swelter over my head. Walking the same old road, I pass the rail station the shops and the park. Summertime and life is easy. Ice cream in the afternoon , la vie en rose in the evening.

Do you have much to do with colour in those days? Does the fact that the sun shone without mercy grew on you? Was your mother happy? Can’t remember anything.

Tango, music.

Many

You wake up in the morning and everything is fine

An hour later the world has collapsed beneath your feet

He went to the beach for the first time in the summer of 1943. The place would remain undiscovered for another 20 years or so. It was a long peninsula on the coast, the south side tide was weak and slow, the north violent and treacherous, According to the locals, it had claimed the life of many a foolish swimmer.

Every day he walked from the chalet to the beach exploring the countryside. To him all the people were mysterious, incomprehensible creatures. . He sauntered across the pine forest. The cool wind conferred pallor to his skin. La vie en rose was in the air. He wanted a blond wig.