Frank

“Frank” the voice crackles, garbled with static over the loudspeaker.
Everyone on the floor looks up from what they’re doing.

“Frank! I need you in my office.

Now Frank.”

Eyes roll sideways in heads towards Frank. Brows raise, looks are exchanged.

Frank scratches his one-o’clock-in-the-morning chin-shadow and sighs his usual sigh. He’s only two hours into his shift and his feet are already aching from the cold seeping up through his shoe-soles.

Giving a nod to the 2IC floor-supervisor over at the main desk, Frank surrenders his clipboard and gloves to the pallet of boxes and heads back towards the shed office. Dozens of eyeballs follow him. He pulls his standard-issue beanie further down and tramps his trail to the back office door.

He feels the heat of being watched like a thousand tiny matches against his cheeks and neck.

Pushing through the door with his shoulder, his hands making fists inside his jacket pockets, Frank hovers in the hall for a moment.

That quiet place between pick floor and office is sacred. A sanctuary of sorts.

But not quite...

The walls are covered in expensive printed wallpaper. The pictures are that of The Man and His Sons. Wealth, yes, before it was grand, but wealth nonetheless. Black and white, Sepia. Grainy, pixelated photos blown out of proportion and clarity.

Frank shivers. He wishes he’d worn his thick socks, but he washed them last night and the drying machine in the basement was broken. He pictures them now, hanging on the head of his bed, those three-fucking-dollar socks that he stole from Dimmeys.

His hand on the door knob, Frank pauses a moment. Breathes in. Breathes out.

The office is warm, hot, more than comfortable. Cal is sitting in his swivelly-rich-person chair behind the clean desk, hands clasped calmly over his crossed legs. Cal smiles.

As he enters, Frank makes a sudden synthetic smile, mimicry. It’s muscle memory at this point, yet he tastes bile at the back of his throat. He coughs, stops, drags up the smile from where he dropped it.

“Take a seat Frank.” Cal says to him.

“I, I don’t think so. I’m….a bit tired.” The flourescent flickers above them.

“You see, this is the problem Frank. A tired worker makes mistakes. And mistakes are something I really can’t…tolerate.” Cal cocks his head to the side on that last word.

Tolerate. Tol. ER. Rate. One of Cal’s favourite words of late.

There are client gifts all over the office. Flowers, chocolates, tickets to some game of some sport. Probably box seats, whatever the fuck they are.

Frank doesn’t watch sport. Frank goes home and drinks, and sleeps. You don’t need electricity or heating to drink. And once you’re drunk, you don’t need electricity or heating to sleep. A perfect circle, as it were.

“Are you listening to me Frank?”

The heat is making him sweat now, this office is too hot, too stuffy. Cal is perfectly still and looks questioningly, if not condescendingly at him. Cal is wearing a too-tight checkered button-through tucked into a belt and snug fitting jeans. Cal and his teeth are immaculate white lies.

“Frank?”

“Yes,” Frank responds, his eyes pushing up through the thick honey of night-shift.

There’s a little polished brass card holder at the front of Cal’s desk from where a tiny Frank-reflection peers up at him.

“Did you pick and pack the Baltimore order last Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I see you’ve signed your marks here.” Cal’s holds up a piece of shabby paper unnecessarily pointing out that which Frank already knew.

“Yes.” Frank is thinking about the eggs he had for breakfast. Were they off? They weren’t green but the whites were quite runny and he’s feeling a churning in his belly. When did he even buy them? He can’t remember buying eggs for a while now. Maybe last Tuesday…

“Well, unfortunately there’s been a problem.”

Unfortunate for who?

“Baltimore have called me and they’re missing a number of important items. Items that you’ve signed off on.”

Cal has put his horn-rimmed glasses on and is scanning the papers for effect. “Ah,” he says and points to a green highlighted item as if remembering a crossword answer.

“This here,” and he holds the paper up again for Frank to see.

Frank squints and moves slightly forward, eggs churning. “Yes, I had the fresh items double checked by Martin on Friday morning before the cargo left and I confirmed the quantities with Baltimore. I also came back to this pick just before the transport arrived and recounted everything. See, I’ve marked RC next to that line.”

Cal purses his lips and turns the paper back around. “Hmmmm,” he says.

Frank looks out the office window onto the floor. Everyone’s back to work, but they’re stealing glances at him inside the interrogation room. Mumbling to each other, placing bets and spreading rumours. He can’t blame them, there’s not much else to do except work.

“Yes, well, as I said you’ve signed and so responsibility must lie with you.” Cal has this conversation predetermined and as he crosses his arms and eyes Frank, the air around them snaps sharp like a belt between two hands.

“Would you mind if I just grab some of my other documents regarding this pick?” asks Frank.

“Of course.” Cal smiles. He stinks of rich-boy confidence.

***

Frank leaves the office and walks calmly through the foyer to the back room where the boys all leave their personal shit during the day. The keys to his locker are on the stretch cord around his neck. Socks, Cons, gumboots litter the floor.

It smells of piss and man-stink and hopelessness. At least, what Frank thinks hopelessness would smell like. Probably a combination of desperation and yesterday’s pizza.

Frank grabs what he needs and heads back through the foyer. The receptionist notices him this time and smiles. Her name is something floral but he can’t remember exactly what, so he smiles back and feels some strange kind of peace without meaning to. She says Hi.

She’s wearing a brown silk buttoned blouse and large-lens nerdy glasses. She’s really, very pretty. She doesn’t notice the 12 gauge Benelli M4 in his hand, it’s 18.5’ barrel dragging quietly along the carpet.

Lies a Wolf Hound Under My Bed

Lies a wolf hound under my bed. I can hear his breath in the darkness and when I close my eyes to sleep I can feel the quickening beat of his heart. Pinned down by the night I have no choice but to stay and sleep through it, though my dreams are frantic and fearful. I wake many times and feel him there, waiting for something. I know he won't tell me what he wants.

By morning he is gone, leaving me with his heat like disease. Hungry, thirsty, needing. It is all at once and I pray it will stop. I dress and sit to work but I can't ignore the lack that I feel in my stomach. Coffee. Toast. I think I am sated but I realise I'm wrong. Distracted, I daydream of the ripping open of flesh and the splashing of hot, sticky blood.

Lunch time passes by and I relax when no one comes to see me. I look in the refrigerator but there are only condiments and empty milk bottles. Working again, I notice my hands are shaking. The strongest feeling I've ever had comes over me, as if I could smash through the wall and come out the other side uninjured. I want to do it. I don't though, because that is insane. Isn't it?

The day is over but I feel more awake than before. In the mirror I see my own eyes, wild and black. They used to be grey. Maybe it's the daylight fading away. I am unready for what is to come. An impetus, to run. To pursue and gorge. A heart in my hands, it's not my own and it still beats warm and wet between my fingers. Do I hear myself howl?

Lies a wolf hound in my bed.

Choir Invisible

Angels came to my door last night.
Unannounced and brimming with need.
They woke me from slumber, banging against the big oak door.
Knowing my name, I let them in,
but they wanted to take more than I was willing to give. More than I ever had.

Angels stripped me bare and left me cold.
I kept telling myself that they didn't mean to,
but as my memory solidified, I saw them opening up my heart as far as it would go
and ceasing to stop.
Down the middle, I was ripped.

Angels considered their own perfection and punished me my mortality.
At least, that's what they did last night as they crowded my bed
and consumed the remnants of my soul. As they
devoured the last pieces that I couldn't hide from them.
A shadow was all that they left in their wake.

Angels came to my door last night.
Unannounced and brimming with need.
I started to believe that this was what I wanted. But in the end
my heart was small and the meat was scant. It didn't sate them. I was unworthy.
I am unworthy. Of Angels.

But they came to my door last night.


This is for the shitty day that I've had, and the claws that I felt across my face. May today never be repeated.

My Left Hand

In the night, when the black has set up shop,
and the mist is thin across the far off fields,
I feel a worry.

A certain loss of control, a flurry of concern.
Like slick oil underfoot that threatens
to undo the purchase that I've gained in the day.

Pressure building behind me
and then a bloom of far too much.

Consumed, I am knocked to the ground,
overcome by that which I always anticipated,
feared,
but imagined would never manifest. Lies. Untruths.
It was all pretend.

None of it could ever touch me,
as long as it was in my head and not in myself.

My left hand, it wants to touch things.
It wants.
It wants to take and hurt and ruin.

My left hand throbs;
full of blood and twitching.
All those impure thoughts,
and unclean feelings.

Bottled into a single appendage.

Well, it makes for a numbing proposition. Cut it off.
But I might just bleed out.

My left hand.
It haunts me.

Visitor

There is no one in the street
but I see you there.
Standing
in your shorts and your black shoes.
I see you there;
a ghost.
A figment of some long lost time.
Some time, long ago.
A stained memory of the knives
that cut these scars into
my skin.

I see you.

Quietus

Inspired by this shaming and relentless weather.

A storm rumbles somewhere beyond the horizon,

somewhere far off. But my failures

and mistakes are much closer.

Upon me without mercy.

Unwavering and so clear.

If only I could be anyone but me.

Perhaps they'd never find me.

Over and over. Everytime I open my eyes.

Everytime I close them.

Hunting me.
These mistakes of mine.

If only I could be,
anyone but me.

Then this grass of mine would not be

brown with mud. And slick with dirty water.

It would be bright and green. Beautiful.

Birds would play and dig for grubs.

Under a blue sky and a blinding sun,

I wouldn't need to poison myself, just so

I could sleep.

I wouldn't need anything but who I was.

If only I could be,
anyone but me.

These bruises might not show.

I'm sure they wouldn't show.

They're everywhere now. On my knees and my hips.

My elbows, where you can see.

Not like the other side.

Where they're purple and bleeding and much worse.

This impotence of mine. It's presenting symptoms.

Manifesting physically.

Taking a toll. It's wearing me down.

I'm stumbling, falling, making a mess.

I've been doing it for a while.

I am The Pretender. Faking competence, intelligence,

ease.

I'm waiting to be someone else.

The storm, ever looming. It knows

who I really am.

It sees me, pretending, dressed in this tarnished skin.

I keep thinking it's closer and closer.

Is it though.

And when they are so close;
My failures, my mistakes.

When they're so close.

I can barely see anything else.

I don't want to be me now.

Don't want this storm to catch me.

I don't want this bruised body.

I don't want to pretend I can take this anymore.

This Quietus.

Kill The Girls

My body lies;
open ashtray.
Vindicate yourself,
blow me away.

{25.10.06}