No one ever mentions the whispers in the dark.
The codes lovers send to each other through the silences.
The emptiness that rides at midnight on the trains of thought.
No one ever seems to have a solution to the war, the greed, the paucity of my morality.
Not even death has meaning. Death has left me cold and unmoving.
Questions reign, questions which fill me with religious guilt.
Questions of destiny, love, purpose, choice, chance…life & resurrection.
No one has any answers, all are but assumptions.
You are what you philosophise to be.
Dark, looming, uncaring.
This world seems at peace when my dreams are undisturbed by the monsters which prey on my fears and insecurities.
No one understands the enormity of my hindsight and my regret.
Yet everyone knows of heartache and reminiscence.
Is my perception skewed?
This is not art, this is not release, this is inner tumult stabbing my sanity.
But I’ll empty this bottle and no one will suffer through my sobs.
All arrows seem to lead towards this place.
Lone, hungry & tortured.
My state of mind is frail.
My penchant to positivity is lost.
Ambitions seem to wane, as does my sanity.
Writing words, at a steady frustrated pace.
I could write of love, I could write of poverty and pain, will it move you?
A writer’s hand in this century has become dull & unoriginal.
There is no depth here; read and interpret as you will, if you must.
Where are you Utopia?
Shantaram by Gregory Roberts £2.00
The Help by Kathryn Stockett £3.00
The Human Stain by Phillip Roth £3.00
Such a long journey by Rohinton Minstry £2.00
Black Shack Alley by Joseph Zobel [new] £10.00
Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones [new] £2.00
The White woman on the green bicylce by Monique Roffery £2.00
The Poinsonwood bible by Barbara Kingslover £3.00
Drown by Juno Diaz [new] £4.00
Confessions of a GP by Benjamin Daniels [very funny] £2.00
In stitches by Nick Edwards £1.00
The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho £3.00
No postage charge
Wicked heat in an icy town leaves her lying restless.
She’s eclectically quirky, with cotton pyjamas, hair tousled & large framed spectacles.
Huffing and frustrated she rises and stares at the clock: midnight.
Pacing and thinking of the errands ahead leaves her slightly crestfallen.
Candles now alit; the prickly flame leaves her agitated with remembrance.
She stares into the mirror, her reflection and shadow dancing in the flame’s light.
The wicked heat leaves her standing restless, watching herself.
She is a darkened beauty; tousled hair & large framed spectacles.
She sheds her clothes and smiles at the curves of her hips and the way her breasts stand perfectly upright.
Growing older but nothing wanes.
Lines stretch across her hips and she laughs while remembering moment when puberty introduced herself.
New hairs took her by shock, and a heavy chest left her self-conscious at 13.
Yet now, she stands – ungracefully posing & smiling, making funny faces to the naked adult body peering back.
Crawling into bed, she releases a passionate sigh at the meeting of the sheet with her skin.
Young skin, smooth, soft, taut, nothing has waned.
Hair tousled & a large smile, she delights in the rising hills of her thighs, and the trough of her slim waist.
She sighs, rolls and falls off her throne. Naked on the floor, she feels 13 again – only with a more bouncy anatomy.
Tousled hair & darkened beauty, she relaxes and enjoys her own company.
Heat rises from her zones, but she cools it with a touch.
Growing older, pleasure never wanes.
A Comical Science piece I wrote years ago…
Amidst the ring and ting of a busy city life – here I lay. Amidst the shouting and the singing – here I lay. Amidst the smoke and the dirt, the hustle and bustle, the executive reports and the medical analysis – here I lay, served daily onAmerica’s favourite hour – lunch. Here I lay, privileged to be America’s, no the world’s favourite dish – the Hamburger Dish. Amidst everything grave and sickly, I will forever be an essential to humankind – forever packed with proteins, fats and carbohydrates. My popularity will never be beaten, unless humankind creates a dish far economically and bodily pleasing, I will forever stay on the daily lunch menu – next to the possibly genetically altered potato fries and the Coca-Cola. I am here to stay!
The clock strikes twelve and in floods the customers:
“One hamburger dish to go please, I must leave now, I have contracts to sign and people to fire!”
Success! I will be sold! I will be a nourishing agent to the pompous young man in the “fly” blue suit. I will be and addition to his possibly reckless lifestyle! Good, jolly good!
Amidst these thoughts, I soon realise that I am shoved into a brown paper bag – “Eat smart, Eat at Bart’s!” it bellows. But I do not let this distract me, for I am eager to make the journey. I have been prepared for this, lectured for this by fellow burgers and have prayed to the ultimate Burger God to make a safe trip. I have heard many unsuccessful stories of vomit and diarrhoea and do not wish to suffer the same fate. Once I am set onto the customer’s plate, I stare longingly at my new master. He shoves me into his buccal cavity and bites hard into me. Juices flow into me – juices which are not my own. This salivary juice gives me a new sensation, a powerful, energetic sensation. I am repetitively chewed upon – mastication is the term. I can feel my starch molecules break up, literally exploding into tiny maltose molecules – it is the enzyme amylase causing such disintegration. Acting on my every being is lysosome, the antibacterial enzyme, mucus, the moistening agent and mineral salts which act as coenzymes to increase enzyme efficiency. The tongue pushes me to the back of the buccal cavity and into the pharynx. This cavity between the mouth and windpipe serves as a passageway both for food (such as me) on its way down the alimentary canal and for air passing into the windpipe. I move towards the oesophagus in a certain shape called “bolus”, formed by the action of the tongue. I move down this muscular tube not by own will, but by this grand machine be, through a process called peristalsis. This mechanism works by sending an alternate wave of contraction and relaxation caused by the relatively large longitudinal and circular muscles.
Once the final wave of peristalsis is sent out, the cardiac sphincter relaxes, forming an opening through which I can pass into the “room”. Then the muscle contracts, closing the opening to preventing any of my being from moving back into the oesophagus. The oesophageal sphincter is the first of several such muscles along this alimentary canal. These muscles act as valves to regulate the passage of food and keep it from moving backward.
I am in a new room, a dismal, pungent sack-like room with strong muscular walls. Now, in this bag, I remember being repetitively encouraged by my mentors to have no fear about the size of the room, for it can expand significantly to store all the food from a meal for both mechanical and chemical processing. The stomach, as I should call it, contracts about three times per minute, churning the food and mixing it with gastric juice. This fluid, by thousands of gastric glands in the lining of the stomach, consists of water, hydrochloric acid; an enzyme called pepsin, and mucin (the main part of mucus). The acid is secreted by the parietal cells while the zymogen cells secrete the inactive form of pepsin. Hydrochloric acid creates the acidic envirois secretednment that pepsin needs to begin breaking down my proteins into polypeptides. It also kills any micro-organisms that may have been ingested with me. Mucin, as I noticed, coated the stomach, protecting it from the effects of the acid and pepsin.
I remain in this tomb, for what seems an eternity, but in reality it is a mere three to four hours. After being chemically processed I feel drained, but am still able to tell you of my journey through the remainder of the canal. According to the rules of biology I am now a semi-digested liquid called chyme. I am passed a little at a time through the pyloric sphincter into the duodenum, the first portion of the small intestine. Then on from the duodenum to the small intestine, where I am again experience the action of the body’s juices. Structures called Brunner’s glands secrete mucus to protect the intestinal walls from the acid effects of digestive juices. Bile is secreted from the liver into the small intestine through the bile duct. Bile acts as an emulsifier, breaking my large fat globules into small droplets, which enzymes in the small intestine can act upon. Pancreatic juice, secreted by the pancreas, enters the small intestine through the pancreatic duct. Pancreatic juice contains enzymes that perform hydrolysis reactions, specifically – amylase breaks down starches into maltose, lactase breaks down lactose into glucose and galactose, sucrase breaks down sucrose into glucose and fructose and maltase breaks down maltose into glucose. Lipase breaks down my fats into fatty acids and glycerol, and trypsin breaks down my proteins into amino acids. Additionally, chymotrypsin and carboxypeptidases breaks down polypeptides into amino acids. These nutrients, my nutrients, are what the intestine absorbs.
The small intestine’s capacity for absorption is increased by millions of finger-like projections called villi, which line the inner walls of the small intestine. Each villus is about 0.5 to 1.5 mm (0.02 to 0.06 in) long and covered with a single layer of cells. Even tinier finger-like projections called microvilli cover the cell surfaces. This combination of villi and microvilli increases the surface area of the small intestine’s lining by about 150 times, multiplying its capacity for absorption. Beneath the villi’s single layer of cells are capillaries (tiny vessels) of the bloodstream and the lymphatic system. These capillaries allow nutrients produced by digestion to travel to the cells of the body. Simple sugars and amino acids pass through the capillaries to enter the bloodstream. They are then transported to the liver via the hepatic portal vein. Fatty acids and glycerol are absorbed into the epithelial cells of the villi, where they are reconverted to lipids. These are wall converted to lipoproteins which are secreted into the lymph vessels found in each villus from where they are carried in the vessels to the point where they are placed into the bloodstream.
I now feel separated and torn apart, my goodness separated from my badness. I know that my nutrients are in proper use, though some may be in excess, I know the body will be able to care and counteract any deviation from the norm. I am able to sense this, like a mother senses her child from miles off. My “badness” as I phrase it, is a watery residue of indigestible food and digestive juices remain which are unabsorbed. I learnt that I can spend an average of twelve to twenty-four hours here, given the correct conditions. From what I have been though and what I have learnt, the large intestine forms an inverted U over the coils of the small intestine. It starts on the lower right-hand side of the body and ends on the lower left-hand side. Again I am drained; this large, hollow tubing absorbs large amounts of water and salts from the residue, until it forms a solid. In addition, bacteria in the large intestine promote the breakdown of undigested materials and make several vitamins, notably vitamin K, which the body needs, for blood clotting. I am now faeces—waste material that consists largely of undigested food, digestive juices, bacteria, and mucus. I am moved towards the rectum for storage where I am now in full awareness of my fate. I can now feel the two sphincter muscles, contracting and relaxing. I creep slowly towards the anus, I see the light, but it is a light I wish to turn away from. I know I cannot cower, I have prepared for this, I am the ultimate dish, and I can end the journey -: “Splat!”
- Which structure is responsible for storing bile (wiki.answers.com)
- After you eat, you feel tired? (cookingislife.wordpress.com)
- What happens as blood passes through the intestines (wiki.answers.com)
Glaring across the room they sit, fingers intertwined, breathing synchronized. A playful touch on the nose and a rapid peck on the forehead solidifies their ties. Lovers. Months in and they’re affection never wanes. She tilts her head back and lets out a rambunctious laugh. He tickles her throat and they fall again into hysterics.
Carefully analysing their every move, another sits. She ponders on the significance of each gesture he makes towards his lover and each subtle grimace, She records and analyses. Hiding behind large hopeful eyes and a yearning heart, She stares.
She studies his lips, the smoothness of his freckles and the deep throaty laugh. Every motion he makes induces a throbbing, and a heat. She bites her lips. Her yearning unrequited, blocked by another woman she disproportionately despises.
On any given day, she would extend her hello. He would be alone, standing, poised, sexual, inviting. She would enter: makeup polished, blouse slightly unbuttoned, girdle choking her waist, perfume and pheromones languidly hanging between them. All a bid to arouse attraction and perhaps a spontaneous grab and grope. Far-fetched and delusional, she laughs at his jokes, gently squeezes his arm and subtlety licks her lips.
“C’mon! Find me attractive!”
Desperation begins to seep through her pores.
Conversation ensues: “So how about that Ronaldo eh?”
Football was her greatest weakness, but his laugh, his eloquent explanation of even the most mundane topics sent her skin hot, and her legs shaking. Though, it was all still unrequited. He gives in, talks, jokes, and then extends his goodbye with a quick hug around her waist. She melts.
She calls every girlfriend and every perceptive male friend.
“What does it mean?”
Opinions waver from:
“Nothing, possibly something, but most likely nothing.”
“You’re getting close, wear a tighter skirt. Talk about his interests!”
The chase is arduous. Eight months on, small signs processed and love-related data are then extrapolated. The protocol for obsessive preoccupation with one man has never been explained to her. She smiles broader, studies his interests to seem poignant and profound. Still all remains unrequited. Infuriation gathers when she sees him with a different lover: buxom, yet utterly unattractive.
With alcohol-fuelled rage, she sends him an Instant Message. Confidence and a technological wall in place, she sends a barrage of honest, bitter questions reminiscent of melodramatic teenage rejection.
“I really like you, don’t you feel the same?”
“Lol, really? I never thought you were interested.”
“Well, you never talked about yourself, and you seemed pretty distant and serious.”
[All my smiles were in vain?]
“Do you find me attractive?”
“Are you kidding? Every guy I know wants you. I just always assumed you were too serious for flings. Unless you’re interested….? Come over, or shall I pick you up?”
[Part disappointment/Part excitement]
The conversation turns from IM to phone. She laughs and her skin tingles over his sensual sayings of nothing and everything. Gentle boasting and soft coaxing, He imagines for them both. Yet still, Her hope rise & fall. Her obsession over the past eight months seem to have been over a personality she created to fit into a handsome human being that could never exist.
Now, He smiles, He calls. She ignores. All remaining unrequited.
Opinions waver from:
“Good, I told you he wasn’t worth it.”
“I don’t know girl, I think you still should’ve seen him naked.”
I was in a rush.
It was 7.00pm and I promised him I’d catch a film at his place.
I had the popcorn and the wine.
I also had several bags of personal shopping from my unintended detour through Oxford Street.
I was 3 hours late and no man, woman or pigeon was going to stop me from getting on the next train.
I continued to skip and walk quickly, shopping overflowing.
I moved to the side, thinking it must be one of those incessant “I need to find myself” type backpackers trundling through Victoria station.
Annoyed, I swung round. Maybe I dropped one of my many many shopping trinkets!
A rather large man, dressed in black leather with hip-hop stylesque jewellery hopped my way.
(Heavy Nigerian accent) “Ehheh! You walk fast. Where you going?”
“Sorry, I saw you and I needed some information.”
“I have was waiting on a frien’ of mine here at de station. De problem is, ah! Stupid pigeons…”
“Do you need direc–”
“De problem is, it is going to voicemail and I dunno where he is. An’ I dunno wha’ to do in dis situation.”
“There’s a pay phone right there, maybe try a different friend?”
“Ah! I thought of dat you know, but de problem is, he was going to meet me here an’ we were goin’ to put our monies together you see.”
“I’m sorry I don’t understand and I’m running late already.”
“Yes dis won’t take a minute. Tah!”
He pauses. I wait. He looks at his phone.
“Let me ring his numba and show you how it goes to voicemail!”
He begins shouting at his phone
“Ah! Where is de stupid man’s numba? His name is Olu you see, I have too many people with O in my phone.”
As much as I was tempted to just run away, this large, burly man, dressed like a 1970s Blaxploitation villain, kept finding new means to keep me within in view.
He took a step forward, I stepped back, wondering if he were some sort of assassin and I was the mis-identified target.
“Maybe he’s just stuck on the train. Don’t stress. OK…bye!”
“Yes, but the extra worry is dat, I have a wife an’ a baby in Warrington.”
“….an’ my friend was going to give me some monies to add to my monies so I coul’ go see dem.”
I squeezed my bags closer to my body, swallowed and extended my sharpened index finger ready for a counter-attack. His cheeks looked ripened for scratching and getting a good bit of DNA. You know, just in case the police take their Krusty kreme filled time before responding to the scream, he gets away and tra-la-la…I have enough evidence to put his brawny-storytelling ass in jail.
“So I was wondering if you could spare me some monies.”
“Sorry I can’t help you I don’t have any money on me.”
“But my sista, look at all you’re shopping! You don’t have £50 to len’?”
He walked forward, eyes cold, yellow and raw. His jewellery clinked and his leather jacket cracked and popped. In the busy, London station, I was being hustled.
“You look like a rich man with all your jewellery, why don’t you go to the pawn shop just over there?”
“Ah! I thought we Africans we haff to take care of each odda? Eh? You don’t have no monies?”
He took it there. The arbitrary “take care of your own line” that makes the liberals tremble, releasing nickels, dimes and pound coins.
I stared menacingly back and retorted: “I don’t have any cash. And I’m not in the habit of taking care of hustlers African or otherwise.”
I took two steps back still staring at him, leaving enough space to sprint and not get pulled back by the arm.
I held his gaze and balled my fist.
“Wow, you’re the first person to not get scared and run away. I’m doing an independent comedy/improv show, would you be interested on us showing this clip on the telly? You were really good!”
I looked at him terrifyingly: “I’m not interested! How dare you?!”
“You were a good sport love! C’mon! Waddaya say? Look here’s a pamphlet with the show’s details, we’re genuine–”
I turned and sprinted away.
Only in flippin’ London.