from Fences

Ben Brooks





                      The Italian mans wife will be smoking a cigar and wearing a yellow
macintosh. She will say "I still love him" and then cry and try to hug us. Put her into
the backseat and give her a blanket. Cartoon animals. Paedophile in the car.



                    Damn. Damn. Damn.

Jesus is in the car behind and he is laughing and nudging our bumper.
             Jesus drives a Chrysler and does not give a fuck.

       Liberal parents breeding idiot children in cement tanks on the east side.

Damn.


                  I want to be taller. I wish I was taller.

"Father, could I sit on your shoulders?"
          Cant see nothing down here.

                     "Fireworks are shit anyway son"


And that's it?


             The end of the world keeps drawing close and then the world does morning or night or
something so we have to wait because if we don't wait we wont see it; the scheduled time will pass and
we will be dead. But we cant die. Not with you still there Dasha. This hypothetical perfect future still
lingering over the North Sea.


             Dear Dasha,
       I am sure that you still exist.
 Sometimes I imagine you doing mundane things:
I picture you making tea
      And smoking;
           Reading and kissing your dog;
        Smiling and crying at the same time–
   I know that you still exist,
Because you are doing mundane things
       And if you didn't exist anymore
  You would be stealing cars with french artists
          Or pissing into the North Sea.



"I want to stop here for the night"
"Last night was the last night"
"Last night I left my husband"
"God is an animal"
"Bastard"
"I want to sleep in your skin"
"I want to sit behind your eyes"



                I am sleeping with the librarian in the back of the car.

I am not sleeping. Not here. Not enough room to walk circles, smoke or 9,10 without
you sitting up bolt straight mouth wide in warning.

           She is asleep. The Librarian is sleeping. I try to pretend that she is you but it doesn't work. It
never works. She is too long. Her skin too thin. Skull too straight. I go outside. It is cold in the desert at
night. Water has high latent heat. That means the North Sea is warm. I will meet you in the North Sea,
half way between here and there. Your country is further away than ever. Damn Hitler. Damn politics
and "plate tectonics". Pulling us apart like we meant something.


             Not that darkness is an aphrodisiac.

Just that it becomes easier to pretend. Placebo.
               Little woman crying in her red flesh bundle.

                           Apologise. Apologies. Letters sealed with wax and raw fists.









Ben Brooks is a young writer from the south west of england. Fences is his first novel and will be published by Fugue State Press towards the end of 2009. He maintains the blog An Ineffable Play for Voices.