Gormlaith’s Lament

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Lauren Murphy, Jute Street

JuteStreet

The hand shows you the way to the notorious Jute Street of Aberdeen. Enter if you dare. Michael Jackson’s Thriller video, I believe, was inspired by the walking dead that linger here. However, they would rather suck on a fag then your blood. It is fine during the day but please be cautious of the night. Both vampires and junkies share a fear for the light.

JuteStreet2

I’m guessing a guy called Finn used to live here. The police came and took down the banners of graffiti-love and this is all that remains. Every morning, when I wake up with my coffee and look out my window, this is what I see. R.I.P. Finn R.I.P. I always see people walking into that building and wonder, how do they get on with their lives. Every day they are faced with the reminder, that someone died here. It’s inscribed on their walls. Whenever, I look over to Finns first resting place I feel a sickness in my stomach. It starts at the pit and crawls up my body, while raising hairs up my neck. I feel sick. R.I.P Finn R.I.P. I repeat these words over and over until something lets me get on with my day. I know it is weird, I didn’t know this Finn, but something changed on the street the day he died. Aberdeen has always been grey but Jute Street is black and white now. Apparently, he was dead, alone, for five whole days. Did no one wonder where he was? He must have been loved as people have marked the house with his name. Making sure no one forgets that a real human being died here. All I know is that an incident happened here. Five years prior a man’s throat was slit in this flat over a ten pound bag of heroine. The realm of death curses this building. Two deaths in less than a decade, I just can’t quite comprehend. His friends, drunk, well I assume drunk, come and sit on this wall. I like to think they sit here and talk about memories with Finn. Then they leave needles and cider bouquets outside his window as a sign of respect. I always wonder how this one died. All I know is that something happened here. Then I try get on with my day. R.I.P Finn R.I.P.

Michael Doran, A Kind of Kansas to California

kansas

the sea is too large,

for the hungers of flesh and heart

are heavy,

with the weight and maze of the lostness of gods

and their importunate harassment of wills.

and i will have been convinced

by these siren songs

that this world is too big for us

and our stupid instincts

and our stupid desires.

On my walk tonight. night. i got caught, in the myriad mazes between the cobbled stones. lost as a jew, jess in Egypt. in the best way, best, possible. What makes a man? i pose pos epode prose. expose. exploded prose snows. haha. i think i might know. i think i might know what makes a man walk away from his mind, mine. i can hear the Richie Tenenbaum suicide song playing. i can, hear. here. Too many late night basement punk shows. punk. not punk and I’m telling everyone. no left eardrum.Fuck you and your fascist chords. you’re not Bob Dylan, Donovan. so What did i do when she broke my heart? i did what all young men do. cried bent arm Uncle!, i went to war. fighting constantly. on the front lines of thoughts and, an unidentifiable recalcitrant enemy; self, and all its philosophically meandering slithering, crisis criss cross cut syllabic over-enacted terrorist reigns. the ineluctable modality of self awareness. drunk on joyce again again again, at least that if no more thrthrthrthrough mine mind. hemingway said faulk you fuckne; language; its simple, really, but I’m not; letter R; nothing more than cold linguistic constructs.;i came here to find the american dream and now I’m in the vortex, in its new facade; expatriation. its all in milky-way shambles, the everythingness of everything exists within the pretexts of human limitation, nations cobbled maze, i know because i saw you trip not slip on them, i pretended not to see because you look looked so ghoul of george gorgeousness in the stale lights fighting the apocryphal fog, creating a halogen haze illuminating the low k sky and slippery glazed stones. and and trip hiccup start i . . A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a bow legged girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world. too big; don’t you know that pooh bear is god? because he did. ha imnot ,hybridNew York Boston accent, im no not, no closer to any kind of truth than you, knowing only the guarantee that comes with the forlorn rags of growing old. you who looked back from jersey and saw the great night lights lowering over some kind of Kansas to California, the evening star drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the praying prairies and flatlands, the badlands bad and saw the boys lay their heads down at night, and in iowa with the children crying, in the land where they let the children cry; you enveloped a nation,youknowing, accepating some kind of buddha truth under a pine tree thicket and dharma beds made from the layers of acquiescent pine needles in the carolinas, pontificating, how can man expect god to respond to the cries of man, if man wont heed to the cries of dog? atheistso supplicant i pray; bless the earth, darken the rivers, cup the peaks; roll out the first and fold in that final shoreoror with all the roads growing, the people dreaming inthe immensity of it. now i look out to inform from my new not old northeast corner and think ofmy mine old westward home through the window, think of this 12 hour island and a smaller island still, as bigas the irish Ireland island hy-brasil is real, the great expanse of the great atlantic hearts that roll in one big unbelievable bulge back to home. i’ll crawl out like a tanker to where i can see the curve of the world. i wonder. i wander around through the myriad mazes between these cobbled stones. streets and stone. walls. stonewalljacksonsbane;;, a twenty-first-century minotaur of mind. no longer a claustrophobe for creativity.. when you trip i will laugh, because because