Tag Archives: destruction

No longer human

you've not hurt              me  today  so  you 
take  your chance            and    you    step 
through the   door           with a  flickering 
glance and   you're          stirring  the  air 
with historic deceits        and dragging  bags   
of  tatters and  tooth-      rotting treats you  
drop and spill your dirt     over the floor the      
pills the needles syringes   and  more  and   I      
hope  that  you're  in a cognitive mood  at the
first chance I get I will offer you food but if
you don't want it I know I'm in trouble and all       
you  desire  is to burst my  bubble you  always
pretend to think   you are right as  you  shout
in my face   and      you  try for a fight  and 
you always  know        how  best  to   succeed  
and all you want          is  to make my  brain  
bleed  so    you           shout and you scream 
accusations   at            me  and  I can't be 
heard as I enter            my plea of innocent 
with proof in the          shape of my heart as 
your screams increase     as  soon  as  I  start

                      and

              I pull out all of my 
        tools of prevention to persuade
    you  to  cease this  game of  contention 
 but there's no comprehension and no suspension 
from this seemingly endless inane invention your 
angry  anarchic attack on  convention and I know 
that there's  no             mis-apprehension  as 
you       play                 dangerous    games     
with my heart                  -rate  with   your 
nickel- plate                  nonsense you  love
to  mis-state                   the truth of each 
story    with                   lies that inflate
as you warm at                 the sight  of  the 
damage to   date              then   I    finally 
 manage  to tell you to go and I see the delight
  writ clear on your face and you step up  the 
    evil torture a  pace to force me to push 
      you out of the door because I can't
         take it for one second more.

You’ve not hurt me today so you take your chance
as you step through the door with a flickering glance.
You’re stirring the air with historic deceits,
dragging rags and tatters and tooth rotting treats.
You drop and spill your dirt over the floor;
the pills, syringes and needles and more,
and I hope that your in a cognitive mood;
at the first chance I get I will offer you food,
but if you don’t eat it I know I’m in trouble,
‘cos all that you want is to burst my bubble.
You always pretend to think you are right
as you yell in my face and you try for a fight
and you always know how best to proceed
and all you want is to make my brain bleed,
so you shout and scream accusations at me,
and I can’t be heard as I enter my plea
of innocent, in the shape of my heart,
since your screams increase as soon as I start,
so I pull out all of my tools of prevention
to persuade you to cease this game of contention,
but there’s no comprehension and no suspension
from this seemingly endless inane invention;
your angry anarchic attack on convention,
and I know that there’s no misapprehension
as you play dangerous games with my heart-rate.
Your nickel-plate nonsense you like to mis-state
as my ears repel the filth you relate,
as you warm at the sight of the damage to date,
then I finally manage to tell you to go
and I see the delight writ clear on your face
as you step up the evil torture a pace
to force me to push you out of the door –
‘cos I just can’t stand it for
one second
more

© Jane Paterson Basil

HOUSE MUSIC

Mr. Sharpe’s house sat alone in a peaceful valley, away from the rest of civilization. It was built into a hill. That is to say, it appeared to have grown out of the hill. The front of it was erected on pillars, and the living area sat on top of them, about 15 feet from the ground. It was a beautiful, imposing building, although not large.

I was standing nearby when I heard the window smash, followed by a cascade of shards of glass which tinkled on impact with the paved ground below. A table appeared in the gaping hole where, a few moments before, a sheet of glass had been. At a push from unseen hands, the table toppled out uncertainly, gathering confidence before landing on the paving slabs below, accompanied by the cacophony of splintering timber.

As I watched in fascination, a fridge appeared in the space, only to speedily follow its wooden predecessor. It crunched and buckled as it hit the deck. The door fell off, and lay defeated beside it.

I sat down at a safe distance, to enjoy the show. Next to arrive was a drawer full of china, which flew up satisfyingly as it made contact with the corner of the fridge, before sliding down the heap and shattering. More drawers followed; full of cutlery, small electrical items, saucepans packed with food from the fridge and cupboards; tins, bottles and packages, each playing their unique part in the symphony, each having their own special sound, and yet each item influenced by what it landed on, and by how far it flew before settling. The kitchen units were not spared. They joined the growing heap of debris in front of the house.

And now, the kitchen must have been cleared, because black bin bags were appearing, to land with an apologetic whump, and split open, vomiting pastel shirts, dark woollens, crisp grey suits and white cotton underwear. Yet more clothing bounced out of oak drawers as they touched base. I saw ornaments, shoes, beds and bedding flying out of the window.

I wondered, if I closed my eyes, would I be able to tell from listening, what new thing had presented itself? Not wishing to miss any part of the show, I didn’t experiment with that idea.

I particularly appreciated the sound made by the ceramic bathroom fittings as they crashed to the paving, their white fragments flying and skimming scratchily.

The TV was disappointing. I have heard that old-fashioned televisions explode. Sadly, state-of-the-art ones don’t. But it made a kind of music, as did the old-fashioned sound system, when its moment arrived.

The sofa knocked an exterior wall light off the wall, adding a subversive note. Its weight brought the whole orchestra to life beneath it. It was sturdily made, and didn’t break. Neither did the armchairs, which rebounded off the sofa to cuddle together beside it.

After the big pieces of furniture had been dispatched, the valley became quiet. There were no other houses for miles, and visitors were not encouraged. I thought about Mr. Sharp. Times had changed. These days, he was a recluse, but he was taking a rare holiday, and at this moment he was on a plane bound for Slovenia.

That he ever claimed to be a music teacher was a travesty. When we were students, he mocked and derided our music. Although angered and hurt by his attitude, we hadn’t given up, and now we’re the biggest name in contemporary music. We’re hailed true artists who’ve brought music out of the dark ages and made it real.

The rest of the band are taking some time off while I work on this project. I find satisfaction in the knowledge that it will be one of our cheaper productions. The only expenses were the ‘prize’ of the holiday, that we had to pay a teaching organisation to present to Mr. Sharp, and the workmen to carry out the job. They’re coming out of the building now.

I switch off and pack up my portable recording equipment, and we get in the van and drive off.

All that is left for me to do now is the creative bit: make the sound into music. I think I may call it ”Sharp House.”

© Jane Paterson Basil