Ion Square



Days in bed. Three, four, six, seven. Can’t remember. The air is warm like a fart. It tastes of breasts and butter. Damp bedsheets and empty bottles of beer. Books, biscuits, and slices of stale bread used to line a poorly stomach prone to the aches and pains of being a user of the bottle. It’s a new year, but there are no celebrations. Forty gunned down in a Turkish bar- that’s what met me as I checked my phone during a break on my night shift. Was going to send a few messages to those nearest and dearest to my heart, but what’s there to celebrate other than the same old mess of what it is to be human? Yeah, we can be full of wonder, but what a virus we are, killing and reducing if it were a contest to be cruellest. But what is there to do other than continue? Anything less would be an insult to the dead. While observing the lack of empathy in those around me, I consider the lack of feeling in myself, but within my heart, I’d like to think there’s a bluebird that sings and flies when no one else is looking. Look at Bukowski- the guy was an arsehole, and yet he had this beauty in him that sings even now some twenty years after his death. I’d like to think I could be tender- could rise above the stench that has a habit of clinging despite my best intentions to do otherwise. Headaches, tourniquets and those brown locks of hair that tickle my nose while I sleep. If I peel back those lids of hers and take a photograph of her eyes, will I catch a glimpse of the man I used to be? Will I smile just how I used to before words came and got the better of me? And these words, how they smear themselves all over my face like the lips of a lover. A Damned Lover- so brilliant and nasty and degrading in the same touch. I don’t want another- I just want you- you who knows the pain that bubbles, inflicts, and subdues. Days in bed. One, two, three. Meet me beneath a spreading chestnut tree.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on 

A Journal for Damned Lovers on 

7 replies »

  1. I have started to feel like any comment I could make about your writing is pallid and inadequate to the job. There is such a hum to what you write, something that crawls under my skin, richochets in my brain long after I’m done. I would call it haunting but I think I reserve haunting for something prettier than the hypnotic grit of your writing. Meaty stuff.

    • Thank you for such a lovely comment- I really do appreciate it. It’s a great honour for me that my words have that affect on you. And that is the beauty of words- how they can get beneath the skin. I hope you are well today and the creative juices are flowing freely for you 🙂

  2. I realize that I run the risk of sounding like a silly fan-girl but I have some experience with really putting myself out there in my writing and know that no matter how long or how often you put your words out into the world it still matters that they be heard. Another WordPress reader reminded me yesterday that no matter how popular a writer becomes, it is still affirming to know that your words resonated for someone else. We write for ourselves but it still always matters for me at least when someone takes the time to actually respond.

    Thank you for replying and for putting your brilliance out in the world.

    • I agree that while we always do it for ourselves first and foremost, it still means so much when someone tells you that your words have had an impact on them. You can’t buy it- you have to earn it, and I’ll never ever take it for granted whenever it happens to me. Which is why I’m so grateful you took the time to share with me these words. You didn’t have to, but you did, and for this I feel blessed x

      • Truly my honor. To be quite honest, I was prepared not to like your writing, to find it too far from my own experience. It has turned out to be a journey I didn’t even know I wanted to go on. It challenges me, it makes me think and it makes me feel. That is a powerful gift.

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