The Devil Wears A Mechanical Heart

The Last Full Stop

Paul Howard — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 13:48:07 +0000

I have worked in law for a long time and sitting here thinking of what to write this lunchtime reminds me of my own plans, or rather the planning stage, of the administration of my own estate after my death.

People go through the process of will making but at the end all what remains are the memories, photos, a set of certificates and the space of no more words or at least words never said.

The following is an expression of sitting, pouring through figures, facts and decisions with that nagging feeling that in a way it all seems a little lacking in soul.

Last Will And Testament

The day will be gone
lost to the space between the space
on the mantle, in the fireside chair and
stolen free flowing lips.
A life to leave on a single sheet,
mechanical as statute books and
a thought
of what to leave, and to whom
a thousand pounds and a celtic gold ring
or a slow goodbye from a dear old friend on a simple white leaf.

Blood Pain And Fear

Paul Howard — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 11:52:28 +0000

thought I would go out on my birthday on my bicycle and burn off some energy and cure the boredom, which I tend to suffer from if I spend too long at home. Three miles into my cycle circuit I came across what looked like frost on a steep slope by the side of the canal, seconds later my front wheel slipped from under me and in that micro space between control and the loss of control I knew I was going down.

I hit the floor, the bike handle bars going left, my body going right, yet both of us not parting company as we slid down the steep slope.

Dinner For One

Paul Howard — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 13:47:07 +0000

The shovel was the arch enemy of moles but not no more. Mikey sniffed the ground unsure of himself there was something more terrifying out there and he thought, just maybe he could smell it.

Yes there it was. It smelt like lightly fried earthworms in a sweet garlic sauce with a side salad of black beetle. Ha! Poison! He wasn’t going to fall for that one.

“Nice try loser!”, Mickey muttered not realising he was shouting at the top of his voice.

Mikey’s self glory was short lived when Frank the fox hit him from behind with a shovel.

The Invisible Lover

Paul Howard — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 13:30:55 +0000

Busy, busy, busy and then when you decide to write nothing springs to mind. Writing is as good as it is bad. At times it flows like new lovers, all hungry and eager and at other times like an old married couple going through a rough patch, who can hardly smile at each other.

The following is an expression really of that huge void which fills the universe when you sit, pondering, thinking, trying to find something you have in common with your creativity so you can produce something.

The Writer’s Lover

She drifts from my bed,
the feathered marshmallow pillow
solemn in the hollow of a lost embrace.

Hypnotic watch footsteps pace in the kitchen
Night after night, after night
dragged by hope she will climb upon the pen once again.

The Clown In The Headboard

Paul Howard — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 13:24:45 +0000

I wrote a section on Fragments of Time about the only nightmare I can remember. I say nightmare but I have in the past perhaps had dreams, which would make wake up in a cold sweat, with your heart racing or would wake you in terror.

I have always said after that one dream nothing else hit the mark and no matter how horrific a drea after, I woke up indifferent. Of course a dream is your minds way of communicating to you through metaphor and images.

I had the dream when I was a very small child but I still remember it in detail. The following is an expression of a journey years down the line when I realised what the clown resembled.

The Clown

A shop in a headboard, empty as closing down sales
The Clown grins back.

Hansel and Grettle candy on the tip of a slithering tongue
Deceit runs like nails under plastic flowerbeds.

On a magnet fishing line the Clown pulls
sniggers malice into cupcakes, sends an iron hammer on a spring

a slow weaving serpent with meat hook heads
to pull a son to mother's skeletal bosom.

Fragments

Paul Howard — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 14:03:17 +0000

It is only when you tell a fragment of your life story that the realisation hits you, what you thought was something pretty average is in fact in other peoples eyes something of an eye opener.

It is perhaps because people expect the norm from me, another bod from a box but in reality the truth is much different albeit not readily shown.

The conversation has lurked in the back of my mind and I find myself once more returning to Fragments of Time but this time with a renewed vigor to tell a lot of untold stories.

Raw Meat

Paul Howard — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 13:28:17 +0000

Expression is not a science and sometimes I get a little annoyed with the trend that all art is in some way the seeking of perfection or a mechanical science.

I have encouraged people to write who have produced hard hitting work and found they could do something they thought was beyond their reach by tapping into the human soul. Its something that I remain true to in my work.

When "Cake decorators sit uncomfortably" entered my head i thought I would sharpen the butcher's knife and have a stab at the "science and elitism".

Butchery

Cake decorators sit uncomfortably
in the art of a butcher’s precision.

Some throw disgust and some throw their stomachs
Some drink milk and honey to forget the heavy iron

and some dip their pens, find their own name
in the feast of organs left in pickled jars.

Toothache

Paul Howard — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 13:34:49 +0000

Vlad the Vampire had toothache and for a vampire toothache was a problem. Not that he was afraid of the dentist but rather if Mavis his coffin keeper found out she would be mad and an angry Mavis was dam right scary.

Vlad recalled the time he left his old socks at the bottom of the coffin before going out one night. He still had the scars and ear damage.

The maiden was laid out on the bed naked in the moonlight. Nice neck though he had no idea how he was going to pierce the skin with a straw.

Tall Old Giants

Paul Howard — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 13:21:50 +0000

The local cemetery has a large variety of trees, some of which tower very high in the older section and have been there probably for a good fifty years if not more.

I took this photograph after gazing upwards and being reminded what it was like to be a child gazing up at everything and feeling so small.

Interesting feeling gazing up and realising despite being older, you are just as small.

Specter In The Bedroom

Paul Howard — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 13:33:48 +0000

This is a revisit of a vivid dream (not a nightmare) I had as a child a long time ago, a dream which perhaps was just a dream or a perhaps a portent although time will prove the latter or not.

It is an interesting concept that we can know the nature of our demise, more so if the brain knows and decides to enlighten our consciousness through our subconscious and dreams.

Portent

A repeated wrong note in an orchestra
The knife sits in a drum skin with an unfurling edge.

Grain falls between the lady’s hips
Rotates sun and moon on the washing line.

Death, the old master no longer rests his bones
A portent sent in the post of childhood dreams

The lady is loosing weight and the
knife is slipping.