The Poet (2nd Draft)

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Why I Write  (E) An explanation of why I write as well as what I believe the purpose of writing should be. #1559875 by Matty Zink

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The Poet



Prologue



In the beginning, when the sky was open and the heavens calm, the poet came to us.  The naked new-born was a void when he entered our world; not a single tear spilled down his cheek nor a smile ever graced his face.  The poet grew alone under the warm light of the sky, and at night the darkness watched over him.  Wherever he went the empty heavens followed, a drop of rain would never dare wet him.  Even after a night of heavy drink, the bare earth was his bed.

         The poet was never found in a church, where the righteous sinners flock together in shame.  The bar was the closest thing he had to a place of worship, though even that could not compare to the outdoors where the sky protected him.  Even in the bedroom of a woman, our poet could not stay long for the moon provided more comfort.  Vices were plenty in himl for one obsession surely would have led to an early downfall.  One can only say about him that he lived as few have, never assuming more than he deserved.  Yes, our poet was dear to us.



1



         Several businessmen sit around an elongated table, all of whom are finishing up their steak while chatting idly.  At one end of the table sits the poet, picking at the bits of fat left on his plate while sipping from a glass of whiskey.  The other end of the table is occupied by the home-owner who sports a trimmed amber beard with streaks of silver darting through it.  All of the men are dressed in grey suit jackets with white collar shirts and matching ties.  A lone woman sits at the tab1e, she's wearing an elegant white evening gown accentuated by a pearl necklace reaching just above her bust-line.

         “Would you like something more to drink?” She asks the poet.

         The poet scratches his stubble filled chin and nods.  He reaches his hand out of the greying sleeve and raises his glass to the butler who obediently fills it before sleeking back the corner of the room. 

         “I had a chance to look over your work,” the home-owner says while leaning back in his chair, “I'm impressed.  Not that I'm one who knows much of poetry, but I like to think I still have a keen enough eye to see a money-maker when it's right infront of me.”

         The poet half-smiles and continues drinking.

         “I don't know of you were aware of this but several of my friend here have a share in a publishing house, and we are interesting in seeing your work in print.”

         All of the men lift their heads and stare at the poet who is staring at the lady of the house.

         “Would you get our friend another drink?” She asks the butler who quickly obliges.

         “You remind me of many of the poets I studied in university, however you seem to have a better sense of insight into human nature,” one of the businessmen says.

         “Very Brechtian,” another adds.

         “Indeed,” confirms a third.

         “Thank God we found you,” the man of the house continues, “who would have thought your beautiful singing in the park would lead to such a grand business opportunity.”

         “More whiskey please,” the poet says while motioning with his cup.

         The lady shoots a stern look at the butler who jogs over to the poet and re-fills his cup.

         “You have your slave trained well,” the poet comments to the lady.

         “I assure you he is no slave, he is here of his own free-will,” she says.

         “What a choice he was given, serve people or starve.”

         “He could have found other employment,” one of the businessmen interjects.

         “And the same problem would have arisen, work or starve.  That's not what I call free-will gentleman – and lady.”

         “He's happy here,” she adds.

         The butler remains still in the corner of the room.

         “Yes, look at him, he's practically bursting with joy.”

         “Oh - I have a splendid idea, do you think you could grace us with a poem?” She asks.

         The men all gently applaud.

         The poet slams back the remaining liquor and stands up, bumping his leg on the table in the process.  Everyone jumps, then chuckles. 

         “If it’s a poem you want than it’s a poem you’ll get,” taking a deep breath, he begins to speak in a loud jovial manner in a mock British accent, “What is there’s should be ours, what is there’s doesn’t belong to them, what is there’s should belongs to us,” he pauses for a moment to watch the butler fill his glass, “Ah damn, I seem to have forgotten how it goes.”

         The men give scattered applause as the poet sits.

         “Not you’re best if I can say so myself, but you have been prone to heavy drink this evening,” the wife says.

         “Now dear, please don’t be rude to our guest.”

         She looks up at the poet, their eyes meet, and she quickly looks down as he continues to stare at her while the conversation continues. 

         “You know, I just came back from Munich, you would love it there, so much poetic inspiration,” one of the businessmen says.

         “Unfortunately Munich will not come to me.”

         “Ha, but surely you must have some source of income?” The bearded man asks.

         “The people in the park pay me in tips, and then there are bars, though they usually pay in drinks.”

         “I say you shouldn’t drink so much, it seems to worsen your poetic ability,” the wife suggests.

“Nonsense, me and my friends will publish your work,” the man says, ignoring his wife.

         “What I really need is a new shirt or two,” the poet says while gazing upwards and stroking his pinkish cheeks.. 

         “You’re not interested in being published?”

         “Soft shirts, large size if possible.”

         “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were a comedian not a poet.”

         “Your poems are so lovely; you shouldn’t ruin yourself by drinking too much,” she says.

         “Why my fine lady, drinking is what inspires me to write such poems.”

         One of the businessmen interrupts, speaking loudly and leaning over the table towards the poet.

         “I suppose you do not wish to be published?”

         The poet, finally breaks his stare away from the lady of the house, leans back in his chair and begins rocking on it.  He picks up his the lady's wine glass and takes a sip while motioning to the butler for a cigarette.

         “If it means another forest will be slaughtered, and another dollar put in your pocket, then the answer is no.”

         “But my friend, there is much money to be made for all of us,” the man of the house interjects.

         “Money?  You try to tempt me with such a thing?”

         All the business men shift uncomfortably and mumble to one another.

         “I believe my dear wife was right, perhaps you should lay off the drink.”

         “Perhaps I should,” he repeats sarcastically, “enjoy your money now gentleman, for once you’re dead it will do you no good.”

         “Please, get our friend one nice clean shirt, and a hat,” the bearded man orders the butler.

         The poet stands up, and looks around the room, no one is looking at him except for the lady, whose greyish blue eyes finally meet his again.  The butler returns, with a new pressed white shirt on a hanger and a brimmed hat.

         “Thank you gentlemen for having me.”

         The poet puts on the hat and tips the rim down.  On his way out of the room he grabs the half empty decanter of whiskey.  The butler looks at the bearded man who closes his eyes and shakes his head, then motions for the butler to let him go.  The lady of the house stands.

         “He’s rather drunk; despite his rudeness we should make sure he has a way home.”

The men all stare at each other in silence.



2



         The poet is lying on his bed in a cramped attic apartment.  The bed, which looks more like a military cot than a place to sleep, is pushed into the corner.  The walls are bare, and painted a pastel blue which has browned with prolonged exposure to smoke.  There is one window at the head of the bed,  and in the street below people scurry around, not knowing that the watchful poet is studying their movement.  He gazes up at the star-less sky, then back down to his notebook where he is scratching wildly with a pencil.  The apartment is littered with books of all kinds, most of them supporting ashtrays over-flowing with cigarette butts.  Beer and whiskey bottles lay everywhere, and the hardwood floor is sticky with spilled drinks.  A knock at the door disturbs his concentration.

         “Come in,” the poet yells, sitting up on the bed and laying his book down on the window ledge.

         A young man enters the room.  He is clean-shaven, wearing a plain white t-shirt and black loose-fitting jeans with a matching dark coat.  The fineness of his blond hair can lead one to believe for a moment that he has no hair at all.     

         “You know, one of these days it’s going to be a killer you’re letting in.”

         The poet chuckles. “More likely a debt collector.”

         The young man smiles, removes his coat, and sits on the only chair that is not covered with books.  He lights a cigarette, then offers one to the poet, who accepts it.

         “You ever notice there aren’t any stars in the sky anymore?”

         “Stars?”

         “Yes, stars, they don’t exist here.”

         “What is this, one of your poems?”

         “Perhaps.”

“It smells like sex in here.”

         The poet smirks.

         “And who was the lucky lady this time?” The friend asks.

         “A socialite, real nice lady.”

         “Not anymore, I suppose?”

         The poet grins.

         “What brings you to my humble abode?”

         “I met a girl, well, a lady.”

         “And when did this happen?”

         “Last week.”

         “And is she beautiful?”

         “I think so, she has the softest pale skin I’ve ever felt.”

         “Soft around her entire body?”

         “I wouldn’t know.”

         “What is the delay?”

         “I have some reservations…”

         “You believe her to be too pure,” the poet bluntly states.

         “In a way, I suppose.”

         “Your problem is one of love good friend.  You see women are special, though not as special as we make them out to be.  You know I’ve had my share.  The danger lies in going too far, laying in bed with the same woman for many nights, losing track of your rationality in place of emotions.  Women are only valuable if they accentuate the man, not distract him.”          

“So what should I do then, be a whore like you?”

         The poet pauses, looks down, drops the cigarette in an empty beer bottle, then continues in a stern voice.

“You should do what you wish, but be warned, once a woman is fat, ugly, and unpleasant to the eyes, that lust will fade quickly, even if the pale soft skin remains.  Love has little to do with pleasantries of the flesh.”

The friend stands.

“Sorry for the short stay.  I’ll give you a call this week to let you know how things go; I think I’m going to go for it.”

         “Don’t bother calling, I have no phone now.”

         “Alright then, I’ll see you around,” the young man begins to leave.

         “You don’t happen to have any cash on you, do you?”

         The friend reaches into his pocket and throws some loose change on the bed.  He turns around and leaves, shutting the door lightly on his way out.

“Young men never learn,” the poet laments as he lies back down, searching the sky. 

Tonight, however, there is no stars in the sky.



3



The bar is filled past capacity with rowdy patrons.  Cigarette smoke lingers in the air, along with the smell of spilt whiskey and stale beer.  The door opens occasionally letting in the sound of motorcycles and breaking beer bottles from outside.  The walls are decorated with stickers and posters, mostly donated by patrons.  There is one bar; being worked by 2 black women in low-cut tops who are continually grabbing drinks and popping off the lids.  For every person that leaves the bar area another instantly fills the gap.  A muted television above the bar plays `Metropolis` on a loop.  At a small table sits the young man, his lady, the poet and a biker.

“Quite the crowd you draw,” the lady says.

She kept her ruby overcoat on, the poet thought because she realized how overdressed she was the second she walked into this seedy dive.  The poet takes a large swig of his beer, resting the bottle on the edge of the table, ignoring the lady’s comment he watches the movie.  He scans the crowd occasionally, and turns to look every time someone walks in the door.  The lady looks over at the young man.

“What would you say you drew in tonight, two-hundred or so?” The friend asks.

“Or so,” the poet replies while still looking at the door, “can someone grab me another beer?”

The rest of the table look at each other, until the biker stands up.

“I gotta piss anyway.”

The biker begins to shift through the crowd, quickly being swallowed by it.  The lady removes her coat, finally drawing the poets attention to the dress she has underneath which forms a V and is revealing quite a bit of her breasts.

“What time are you due to go on?” The lady asks.

“Half-hour, or so,” the poet replies, and then looks away.

“Your friend is rather rude,” the lady states loudly.

The poet doesn’t respond, and quickly stands up from his seat and walks towards the door-way.

“He’s not rude, just different,” the friend responds.

“Well let’s hope his habits don’t rub off on you.”

She bites her lip and they share a kiss. 

“It’s a good thing you brought your coat, it’s supposed to pour tonight,”

“I don’t know, the sky is clear,” she responds.

They are interrupted by the biker returning with two beers.

“Where the fuck did he take off to this time?” 

Outside, the poet lights up a cigarette and walks up a steep flight of concrete steps leading to the street.  He pushes the door at the top open recklessly, nearly hitting a couple walking by.  The sound of motorcycles driving by is overpowering any other sounds.  Several bikers sit on the side of the street drinking beer and throwing the empties at a full parking lot across the street.  The poet walks to the corner where a skinny man with long hair is standing with a prostitute. 

         “…I’m not giving you more than ten,” the man is saying as the poet approaches, the man stops and turns, the whore walks away.

         The poet sticks his hand out and the men shake hands.  They both look side to side, and without speaking the poet leaves, barely hearing the man yelling after hooker.  He walks back into the stair case, where a junkie is in the middle of shooting up, and continues into the bar.   

         “I got you a beer.”

         The poet nods as he chugs the rest of the beer, and walks away towards the bathroom.  The others stare around, silently rocking their heads and tapping their feet to the music.  After a minute, the music comes to an abrupt halt, everyone begins to cheer wildly.  The bouncers for the club are setting up the amplifiers and microphone stand.  One does a microphone check, and the two yell back and forth until the feed-back from the amp stops.     

         The poet stumbles out from behind the stage, taking a long time to walk up the small flight of stairs leading to the stage.  Once on, he fumbles around the back of the stage, coming out with an acoustic guitar.  The crowd roars as he approaches the microphone.  He rubs his nose fiercely, clears his throat, and begins to strum wildly.

         “Up in the morning and out to school, mother says they’ll be no work this year…”

         The crowd begins to holler so loudly that it drowns out the sound of the poet singing.  He continues despite the noise, performing almost entirely with his eyes closed.

         “…factories are closing and the armies full, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’ve come to see, in the land of the free, there’s only a future for a chosen few…”

         The crowd lets out another roar, people begin to push each in a violent outburst.  At the table, the biker is knocked off his chair and crashes to the floor.  The young man grabs him by the sleeve and pulls him up.  The biker nods thanks to the young man, gains his footing and grabs his beer bottle.  He scans the crowd, pulling the man who pushed him and breaking the bottle over his head.  The blood flows instantly, and the man lets out a yell which could be heard over the noise.  The poet stops singing, opens up his eyes and sees the orgy of violence which has erupted before him.  He narrowly dodges a bottle thrown on stage.  Another bottle explodes on his guitar, sending shrapnel at his face.  He removes the guitar from his shoulder and holds it by the neck, swinging it at people who are trying to jump up on stage.  Through the midst of the crowd he sees his friend’s lady hiding under a table.

         He jumps down off the stage, hitting people with the guitar on the way to clear a path to the table.  An unknown fist hits his face, the poet winds up the guitar and lays a blow to the man’s head, the body of the guitar snaps from the neck. The poet holds on to the wood stick with strings dangling off of it.  A fist strikes his temple, he drops to the ground, darkness surrounds him, police sirens roar in the distance.



4



         “…hey, hey bud, you awake?” A voice calls from far away.

         The poet slowly opens his eyes, everything is blurred; an unknown face is inches away.  The poet swings weakly at the face, making contact with a dull thud.  He falls back down; broken glass digs in the back of his head.  He closes his eyes and the beautiful heavens full of stars appear before him, despite how dark it is the stars provide enough light for him to see. The scenery changes, the poet is sitting on a rock at the edge of the ocean, just looking up at the sky while smoking and sipping from a flask.  One by one, the stars begin to die, and the poet stands, reaching to the light, but it is too late, the last star dies and he is left alone in the dark.   

         “What do you think you’re doing?”

         The poet opens his eyes again, and the bikers face comes into focus.  He has a gash across his cheek which he his holding a napkin to.  He has lost his navy blue bandanna, and now a long mane of scraggly hair is visible. 

         “That’s the thanks I get for trying to help you eh?”

         “Where were you before I got the shit beat out of me?”

         The poet tries to stand up but quickly tumbles, his hand landing in a pile of broken glass.  He winces in pain.  The biker offers a hand and together they manage to get the poet on his feet.  The poet takes a look around; the bar is in ruins, the floor shines with brown glass.

         “Spoken like a true poet.  Well, to let you know I did stop a guy from shoving the neck of your guitar up your ass, took a nice hit in the face for that one.”

         The biker dabs his face again, looking too see that the bleeding has almost stopped.

         “My thanks,” the poet turns sharply, “Where’s…?”

         “Oh he made a break for it shortly after shit hit the fan, she got out right after you got knocked out, lucky her.”

         The poet forces a smirk, and then winces in pain.  He begins to pick shards of glass out of his palm when the lady walks into the bar, shoving aside some debris with the door.  The biker walks out to speak to the police.  The bar is completely silent, and they are the only two inside.  The poet is still picking slivers of glass out of his raw flesh.   

         “I saw what you tried to do,” she says without expression.

         The poet limps over towards the bar, stopping to pick up the neck of his guitar.  He inspects the damage, feels the fret board over with his thumb, and throws it behind him.  At the bar, he finds a bottle of gin that is missing the top, and pours out a shot into a glass missing a large chipped out of the top.  Careful not to drink out of the sharp side of the glass, he slams back the drink, shaking his head when it is down.  The taste of juniper berries fills his mouth.

         “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

         The poet pours and takes back a second shot.

         “You’re completely insane, aren’t you?”

         The poet goes to pour another, the lady grabs the bottle and throws it on the floor.

         “I’m the crazy one?”

         “So that’s what it takes, take away your booze to get the great poet to speak.”

         “Sounds like a circus act, you could sell tickets, make a pretty penny.”

         “Isn’t that what your life is?”

         “You know, some would take offense to that.”

         “But not you, right?  No, no, no, you’re different, special even.”

         “That’s what they’ve always told me.”

         The pair move closer.

         “The way you act, I’d be surprised if you even had a mother.”

         The poet grabs her.

         “I don’t.”

         They are just inches away from each other, both staring intensely into each others eyes.  The poet is trying to not shutter at the taste of the cheap gin he just downed, the lady’s look turns from one of anger to one of pity.  She looks down at his lips, then back up to his eyes.



5



         The factory floor is clean and grey, made of a textured epoxy resin.  One man in the back is sweeping a large pile of dirt around, while several men are huddled around a machine which continually pumps out plastic flower pots in sheets of twelve.  The men count out fifty sheets, press them together, another applies a strip of tape, another applies a date stamp, and the final worker stacks it on a skid.  The whole process takes 8.3 seconds by company policy, anything far above that could warrant a suspension.  The poet is leaning against a tall tool bench, sipping a clear drink out of a glass bottle.  One of his fellow workers, a clean shaven bald man, stands opposite him.  All the men are wearing navy blue full sleeve work uniforms, with their names sewed on their sleeves.  The poet has his shirt unbuttoned, and the sleeves rolled up.

         “You know, they’re going to come down on you hard if you keep this up,” the bald man says.

         “Let them do what they do, and I’ll keep doing mine.”

         “What is that you do exactly?  Showing up late, slouching on the job, leaving early.”

         “We’ll see.”

         A deafening bell rings, everyone hurries off to the cafeteria except the poet.  The machine keeps pumping out pots at a steady rate, and the poet just watches the pots pile up while counting in his head.  He waits until the machine is at fifty-three, and then begins the taping procedure.  A man wearing a white collared shirt and carrying a clipboard walks in to the area.  He removes a pen from his breast pocket, and replaces the pen with his glasses.  The poet stops what he’s doing, stands to attention, and does a mock Heil Hitler salute.

         “I see your sense of humor hasn’t been lost.”

         “Sir, no sir,” the poet replies in short bursts, with his right arm still raised in the air.

         “At ease you…”

         The poet relaxes his arm, and goes back to leaning against the machine, in the background the pots are continually being pumped out.  A number of men are huddled around the other side, trying to remain out of sight.

         “I see you’ve missed quite a bit of work lately.”

         “You’re a very observant man.”

         The men subdue their chuckles. 

         “Is this something you should discuss with human resources?”

         “I don’t think so.”

         “And why is that?”

         “Can't we just settle this like civilized humans?”

         The supervisor shifts around, bites his lip and looks the other way.  The machine is still pumping out pots at a consistent rate.

         “It was a joke,” the poet assures him.

         “Was it?  Well then, that may be the case, but your absences are not.”

         “I disagree; it’s made you rather angry.”

         “And you think that is funny?”

         “In a way, yes, not making you angry, but that look you get on your face when you are angry,” the poet pauses, “yes, that’s the one.”

         “That’s it, I’ve had enough, you’re done here,” the supervisor takes some papers from his clipboard, “here’s your last pay, I never want to see you around here again.”

         “That won’t be a problem.”

         The poet takes the cheque, removes his work gloves and throws them to the ground.  Behind them the machine has backed up to a point where it is pumping pots onto the floor.  The supervisor rushes over and tries to stop them but only causes more to fall.  The workers shift to the back of the machine.

         “The industrial clock never stops ticking,” the poet yells as he leaves.

         The whistle blows, a rush of men enter.  It only takes an extra two minutes to straighten out the mess, not as proficient as possible, but accounting deemed it to be an acceptable loss.



6



         The poet enters his apartment; a musky smell lingers in the air.  He takes off his work jacket, and throws it into the corner.  He tips a couple empty bottles to see if they have anything left.   

         “It smells like sex in here,”

         A laugh comes from the bed, and the lady looks up after rolling over in the bed.

         She is naked, her breasts exposed and the rest over her body covered by a grey fleece blanket.  The poet looks away, and sits on the only free chair.  He takes out a cigarette and lights it.

         “I was thinking of tidying up a bit,” she says.

         He takes a deep breath and exhales.  The smoke lingers in a cloud around his head.  He looks around the room, picks up a copy of Das Kapital and begins flipping through it. 

         “Don’t bother,” he says curtly.

         She lies back down, covering herself completely with the blanket.

         “How long are you planning on staying?” He asks, still flipping around in the book.

         She closes her eyes and turns so her back is facing him.  He fumbles around with some bottles, tipping over a bunch of them.  Still facing away from him, she raises her hand and points her finger to the sky.  He closes the book. 

         “What the fuck does that mean.”

         “I was right.”

         “I don’t need a fucking wife.”

         “Maybe that’s exactly what you need, a wife…or a mother.”

         The poet throws the book at her, narrowly missing her head.  He forcefully flips over a table full of empty bottles; the crash causes the lady to jump out of bed.  Her large breasts jiggle as she settles.  The sight of her naked figure in the light from the window makes him pause. Her silky smooth skin covers her entire body, not a single freckle or scar is visible. The two stand for a moment, looking at each other.  The poet smiles, walks over to the window with the lady watching him, grabs his book off the windowsill and begins to scribble down notes.   

         “What's your fucking problem?” She pauses, “Booze?  Is that what you want?” More silence, “The full bottles are on the table by the door.”

         He walks over to the bottles and grabs the amber coloured liquid, while still writing in his book.  He takes a large swig straight from the bottle, shudders, and puts it down, continuing to write hurriedly.

         “I thought you said you didn’t clean up,” he comments while returning the book to the window.

         “I lied.”

         “You went through my stuff then.”

         “A little.”

         “Find anything interesting?” He comments, lighting up another smoke.

         She hangs her head.

         “When are you planning on leaving?”

         “Why do you have to be so harsh all the time?”

         “I said before...”

         “I know, you don’t need a wife, and I don’t need a husband.”

         “Then why are you still here?”

         “I wanted to see you again.”

         He puts his head between his hands.

         “Well, here I am.”

         The poet walks over to the bed, lays down, and begins to remove his shirt.  She bites his lip playfully, and strokes his chin, with her other hand running through his hair. They roll over, and now the lady is on top, both hands holding the poets head steady as the two share a passionate kiss.  He rolls her over again, almost falling off the bed.  He begins to feel up and down the side of  her body.

         “Have you told him about us?”

         “Have you?”

         They roll over again, and she begins to undo his pants.

         

7



         The poet sits alone on a park bench at dusk.  An empty guitar case is open by his feet. The park is in full bloom, with bright flowers covering most of the ground.  A huge oak tree towers over the bench.  The park echoes with the sound of children playing somewhere in the distance. The poet is singing, while clapping his hands to maintain a beat, stopping occasionally to whistle along with the birds.  Two old ladies are parked on the bench opposite of him, chatting about the weather.

         “The clouds will hold,” he interjects.

         The ladies smile, stand up and each throw a quarter into his case before scurrying off.  The poet lies down on the bench, staring up at the sky.  He quietly sings to himself:

         “And the sky and the moon and the sun and stars can only take us so far,” he hums a beat for a moment, with his eyes closed.  He takes his flask out and sips it.  A blue bird lands on the edge of the bench, and pecks around the wood.  The poet carefully removes some seeds from his pocket and holds out his hand.  The bird slowly jumps over to him, pecks out a couple seeds than flies away.

“Typical, just take what you want and leave.”

Two women jog by, and the poet watches them as they pass. 

“I try to stay trim by living my life,” the poet mumbles.

A junky parks himself on the bench across from the poet.  Thunder rumbles in the distance, the poet studies the sky.

“Maybe I was wrong,” he says.

The haggled junky pulls out a needle and a rubber tourniquet out of a small pouch.

The junky looks up, sees the poet, packs up his bag and leaves. 

The poet closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.  A gentle spitting of rain comes down from the heavens. 



8



         The poet sits down at the bar.  The biker and the poet's young friend are sitting beside him, all three sipping beers.

         “It’s a good thing you’re not playing tonight,” the friend says.

         “If only I could be so lucky,” the poet replies.

         “My face still hurts, and you know that my good looks is how I make my money,” the biker adds.

         The three men laugh heartily. A well dressed man enters, and walks over to the trio who are still laughing.  He stands for a moment until they acknowledge his presence. 

         “We have some business,” the man says, tapping the poet on the shoulder.

         The three men simultaneously take a sip from their beer.

         “I said, we have some business.”

         The men ignore him.

         “Listen here you leech, I’ve worked hard all my life to get where I am, and I don’t need some fucking punk-poet coming into my home and taking my wife. You’re nothing, you’re a fraud and a failure.”

         The poet speaks without turning around.

         “She came to me, I didn’t go to her.”

         “Yeah, well she won’t be going anywhere, anymore,” the man says in a calm voice.

         He pulls out a knife and stabs it down on the bar in front of the poet.  There are dried red splotches covering the blade and some of the handle.  Several tables around the bar begin to stare at the man who is  standing behind the poet.  In one motion, the poet pulls out the knife front the bar and pushes the man to the ground.  In the midst of the fall the knife turns upwards.  When the men land it ends up in the poet’s stomach.  He lets out a scream, rolls over and pulls out the knife.  A stream of blood drips out of his gut.  The crowd flees the bar. The poet pants ferociously while wiping the sweat dripping from his brow.  The friend tries to grab the knife away from the poet. The man lands a quick jab to the poets face, and pushes him to the side, the knife plunges into the friend's neck.

         The poet looks back at the man who is trying to get up.  He rolls over so the two are facing, and grabs the sides of the mans head, and with his thumbs begins to push down on his eyes.  He screams in horror, and begins to squirm, kicking the poets legs in a desperate bid to stop him. Blood slowly drips from his eyes.  The biker takes a bar stool and smashes it over the man’s head.  He takes one of the legs and stabs him in the chest with it.  The man let's out one final twitch before remaining still. 

         The biker helps the poet up and the two men instantly turn their attention to.  The friend lays still on the floor with the knife sticking from his throat.  An awful gurgling noise comes from his throat. He makes a futile attempt to grab the knife but his hands fall and the gurgling noise stops.

         “Fuck,” the biker yells, “let’s go, out the back!”

         He grabs the poet and drags him towards the back exit, where police sirens are already blaring.  Two police men walk by the ally, the biker pushes the poet down behind a dumpster and ducks beside him.  A brief flash of light hits the back wall of the alley then disappears.

         “Let’s go.”

         The poet crouches over holding his stomach with the biker pulling him.  The poet tumbles over some trash bins and falls face first into a puddle of rain water.

 

9



         The poet rolls over, causing him great pain.  He screams, keeping his eyes closed.  The biker darts up from his chair.

         “Damn, you scared the shit out of me.”

         The poet sits up with much difficulty.

         “What…what…”

         “You’ve been stabbed, it looks pretty bad but I think you’ll be alright.”

         “My apartment…need to…” he trails off, throwing his head side to side.

         “You’re not going anywhere; the police are searching for you hard.”

         “But I…What’s???”

         “The bar, remember, you killed that guy.”

         “But...why?”

         “Because you boned his lady.  Listen, I tried to swing by your apartment to pick up some of your stuff but the place is swarming with pigs.”

         The poet cries, finally opening his eyes.  The biker walks over to him and puts his hand on the poet’s shoulder.

         “You’re burning up.”

         The poet recoils in horror, falling off the bed.  The plain walls start shaking; the floor becomes a warped mess, the beams of the ceiling slither in a snake-like fashion.  The bed sheets turn to crimson and  drip onto the floor.  The colour spreads, as the shaking of the room mixes it, coating the entire room.  The biker speaks, but his words fall to the floor and mix with the blood in a muted thud. The chairs, desks, and bottles begin to whip around the room in a tornado like vortex. The poet stands, knocking over a chair in the process.  The biker is the only stationary object.  His mouth is moving, but no sound can be heard, his mouth begins to drip as if he was an overheated wax figure.

         He rushes past the biker and out the door, taking a moment to balance himself against the wall.  He looks at his hand, which is melting into the wall.  He recoils and crashes into the other wall.  The hallway narrows to a fine point in the distance. The poet continues to stumble down the hall.  He looks back and the biker is following him, dripping with dark blood, his hands replaced by hooves and a pair of thick horns covered in flesh protruding from his head.  The poet bursts into a full run, bouncing from wall to wall as he travels down the hall, finally reaching the stairs.  He looks back, the biker has disappeared.  He throws open the door and starts down the stairs, missing the first step and falling down.  He tries to grab the rail but misses, cracking his head at the bottom of the flight.  He lets out a moan which he cannot hear.  Standing up again he looks at the next flight of stairs leading to the ground floor.  The stairs form an endless stretch into darkness.  Fire is shooting from behind him, the steps are forming from molten lava. 

The poet lunges forward, clearing the stairs and landing harshly at the bottom.  The exit sign is flashing violently, and he crawls to it, barely being able to open the door.  He stands up, looking at the world around him.  Above the courtyard the sky is black; with an opening several hundred yards away.  Lightning crashes down, all the trees erupt into flames.  The garden alone is covered in light, he mindlessly runs towards it. 

         Lighting flashes, thunder crashes, and fire rages as he makes one last leap toward a bed of raw earth.  He begins to sink into the dirt.  The sky above him clears, not a cloud to be seen.  The storm dissipates as he sinks deeper, finally opening up completely as the earth covers him.