BELFAST IN BROKEN G
PART ONE
“LEARNING TO SEE… TALK OF
OBSESSIONS… NAOMI BY OBERST GLOW”
“LEARNING TO SEE… TALK OF
OBSESSIONS… NAOMI BY OBERST GLOW”
I
Belfast. Look at you, there.
Look at you smiling that post-filth smile a yours, with
the daylight caught in your waters, with the nighttime
caught in your broken-glass alleyways.
With your windows glowin purple, green, blue, red, with
your doorways kissed by taxi headlights an drunken grins.
With your steeples caressing some hint of divinity just
beyond the skyline, with your geometrical weavings and
bindings, with your interlocked passages and your
creases and curves.
With your bar-rooms slung round the shoulders of a
staggerin, angular B minor, with your café’s tastin a
rain on a beautiful girl’s lips, with your junctions an
terminals tremblin with the reverberations a stories too
complex to be heard anywhere outside of an anechoic
chamber, where the narrative hisses ‘longside the liver
an the punchline bounds back an forth off the ribs.
With your drunkards regaling teenagers wi tales a
ungodly degradation, tales alive wi the slap of a urine-
soaked toilet lid gainst a puke-rotted hairline, and the
anonymous grunts from someplace south a the vertebrae.
With your plaster Lenin stood outside the doors a The
Kremlin, the pavements soaked in self-discovery, the
self-discovery soaked in The Sticky.
With your lovers on the benches outside City Hall, lost
in one another’s whispers neath the dead-eyed glare a
Daniel Dixon, stood there castin shadows cross the goth
kids high on glue an hair-spray, each eye blacker than
the last, every sigh that bit more anguished, and round
about, the fumes a Fringe Envy risin off a every tongue.
“Fuck your fringe, say, fuck it! This is a fringe, right
here, floppin away in the breeze!”
“Flop my arsehole! Damn fringe a yours ain’t flopped in
a lifetime, this is a fringe, fucker breaks my back it
sways so far!”
And wanderin round the back a the buses parked to the
left a the blue / black ensemble, fourteen year olds
rattlin wi the Fear, teeth gnashed to the gums, say I
can’t go over there, my god, they’re all emo now, fuck
my eyes, I spent three months an half my body-weight
tryin to look like him out The Libertines, and this is
my reward, well screw it, I say, screw it!
And towering over it all, those cranes, Samson and
Goliath, those monoliths thrustin up an out the
shipyard, those gleaming epitaphs to the industry lain
in tatters round about.
Stood defiant, and the echoes of countless heels slappin
the tarmac underneath, heels ain’t touched that walkway
in decades.
Just look at you.
And The Duke headin on through Central Station with the
notebook on the knee, with the biro scrawls cross the
white, with The Last Temptation Of Christ on the seat
beside me, with the mind staggerin blind cross the
planes of Yesterwhile, back when I saw Belfast through
the skull-fucked veil a cheap cider and warm beer fit to
wring the spleen out the face wi every mouthful.
Way back when, I say, when traipsing out bar-rooms in
the August twilight, wandering in and outta the filth-
specialists behind Castle Court, blackened storefronts
and pulsating thresholds, come on in, son, got the kinda
accessories in stock fit to scourge the guts out
physiology itself.
Back when those cranes were the writhing ghosts a Sodom
and Gomorrah caught tween the tides a the Dead Sea, and
coiled around them, some scale-jawed toothless crone
spittin an clawin at the air, tongue the colour a
cancer, hair the colour a guilt.
Back then, aye.
A different city, now.
Because you think you seen somewhere, you think you
understood something, seen nothing, aye, understood less.
Seen the horrors a the psyche solidified up ahead, seen
Belfast as an escape, as a noon train an a carrier bag
fulla oblivion, and so hypnotized wi the internal, the
external takes on all sortsa demonic proportions, the
topography sliced an grated an rearranged in nonsensical
columns.
So you think you see, but you don’t see.
See only the wolverines prowling closer from the
shadows, the heat risin off their backs, the hind legs
busted an rebuilt wi the teeth a infants.
Seen it, ah now, seen nothing, less than nothing, seen
fuck all.
Seen a fella crawlin back and forth over barroom floors
with a song caught in the gut, those sentiments bulging
behind the liver an the throat sealed in Lucifer’s grot,
and no note escapes, no words break the bindings a this
cage etched someplace within Satan’s knacker-pipes, all
there is is rumour, all there are are hints of something
maybe worth hearing, somewhere underneath the hellish
paste clingin to the larynx.
Faces wi iron seals cross the jaws, wi eyes stapled
shut, wi the nerves humpin tissue neath that monstrous
façade, teeth ground into one another, muffled
protestations;
Let me see, let me see I say, and no, nothing, whisper
seepin out the couple exposed pores is all, seepin out
an lost to the breeze.
Seen a bar-room filled wi death-yapped preachers, chewin
the muck out half-lit roll-ups, gnarled fists clutchin
crooked pencils, scrawls across the papers, say fuck
now, I’ll eat my knees if this fucker comes anywhere
near last, I say, my own knees, chew the bastards limp.
Heard the brayin and the gnashin an the gimmie this an
that and gumshy gnash gnash flitterin like ticker-tape
out Stormont Castle, and the keyboards battered bent and
broken cross knees shiverin with the cold, the death-
breath chillin the nuts a every poor bastard steps
through those doors, and the flashes a the cameras
gainst the white, and the needle-eye grins wi teeth
rotten with spite.
Seen it, I say, seen nothing.
Till the eyes of a lass with shoes that smile up at her,
till those eyes meet mine on Dublin Road, and the rain
and the laughter an the adverts side a buses an the neon
etchings either side a the street, all a this caught in
the blue, and for the first time in who knows how long,
first time since I first saw the Royal Mail building
stood like a prism flinging Belfast in every direction,
first time since then I saw it.
In her eyes an her smile I saw Belfast.
II
Few weeks back, in the train station couple miles from
where a fella might wake up every morning, give or take,
sat there writing a song, far as a man might recall,
something involving ghosts and exorcisms, something
involving the spirits a man might bump into when the
street-lights reach through the window an pinch a
certain corner of the bed, or a certain spot ‘pon the
carpet, or a certain nook beside the wardrobe, aye.
These ghosts of loves an lusts an shambolic fumblings,
these spectral remnants a filth flung freely cross the
dew.
And turning the page, ain’t got a thought in the head to
spare for these terrors, not with the sigh in the soul,
not with the name etched cross every line of every note
noted.
Naomi, the name, it’s Naomi, and there it is, hinted at,
tip-toed round, subtly suggested.
To the left, sat beside the poster advertising some fair
or other concerning tractors, sat there, I say, The
Ponderer, pondering away, chewin the bottom lip ragged,
pencil scribbles in the margins of a fella’s life, all
these diagrams and charts and reams of statistics
analysed rotten.
Ponder me this, is what The Duke announces, ponder me
this and now, not a second later, ponder me these
notions and concerns, the hell do I pay you for if not
to digest and make sense of the delirium in the mentals?
What he ponders – Something concerning time and
circumstance and luck. Something concerning rebirth and
regeneration.
Scribbling, muttering, cursing and hissing.
Eventually, an image a fella might recognise.
The Duke, there he is, sat in some café, Sir Fleming
cross the way, conversation in the key of obsession.
Taking stock.
“Well, there’s Kirsten.”
Sir Fleming nods. A given, that is. Who else?
“Oh, this girl gets the train in the mornin sometimes,
looks a bit like Christina Ricci, I probably thought
about her more than is strictly plutonic.”
“Is she an obsession?”
A shrug. “I dunno. Who isn’t, in this day and age?”
“What of Harry Potter Woman”, he’s asking, and a
previous Obsession wandering past with a tray fulla
caffeinated beverages.
“Nah, that ain’t ever gonna head no direction. She’s
‘got someone’, lest we forget, and anyroad, think I
freaked her fuckless wi all that chat of ‘Ooh, I dig
your hair somethin savage’.”
“She did have nice hair.”
“She did! Fuck my eyes she had wonderful hair. But no.”
“So she’s no longer an obsession?”
Considering. Is she? If she approached a fella here and
now, said “Yeah, by the way, turns out I was lying on
account of I was all nervous an such, what with you
being such a charming fellow an all, chances are I’d a
said something stupid, but anyroad, best we go degrade
ourselves senseless in the back row of an abandoned
theatre”, if this took place, probably she’d get a
response along the lines of “Um. Aye, ok.”
But so much effort to maintain these things when the
outcome is even a touch ambiguous, never mind obsessions
regarding folks already done stated fairly clearly that
no, ain’t no way or no how, they’re “seeing someone”,
they’ve “got someone”, they “don’t get Bright Eyes.”
The eyes alive wi Grafton Street, he pauses for a
second, gatherin thoughts. “And what about…”
“Hush now! Hush, I say, like what the Deep Purples
suggested, and to a lesser extent the Kula Shakers,
hush! We know how that tale ended.”
Sir Fleming tutting. “Well this is a fucking pitiful
display, t’is, wretched a show as any I ever gazed upon
for fear of missin something pathetic. You, who has
perfected the art of keeping multiple obsessions on the
go like they were Chinese plates spinnin top the psyche,
here and now, with hardly an obsession worth weepin
over.”
Leaning forward, will I say, will I not say, will I
suggest, will I change the topic, hells fire, there’s a
new Fahey flick on the Sci-Fi one a these nights, so the
grapevine been yackin.
“What?”
“Well, see, yes, there may be an obsession, an obsession
heretofore unnoted on account of it threatens to
transcend the fantastical, has potential hangin to it,
see.”
“Potential!? Transcendence!? What is this shindiggery?”
“Well, what it is, is I kinda met this girl, see.”
“And?”
“And, well…”
“And, well…”
“And, well…”
The station back in focus, the Ponderer foamin at the
breastplate, the hells wrong with you, I’m saying, And,
well… what??
Flingin a copy of The Film Sense at the jitterin fiend’s
teeth, say come now, the hell kinda sabotage is this,
compose yourself!
Composing nothing, terrified he is, finger pointed at
the door, and then sense and sensibility restored, it
all makes sense.
“No, The Ponderer”, I’m saying. “It’s not like that any
more.”
Wandering into the station, see, the woman what used to
be The Duchess, she’s headed towards the ticket booth,
spies a fella, yes, a smile, a “Hi”, and returned,
course.
That “hi” batted back cross the court, causes The
Ponderer to screech with unholy intensity, fucker bounds
up and flings the limbs round the rafters, yelpin and
trembling.
And he has every reason to, I understand, yes.
Couple months back the poor fucker endured 49
consecutive days of spine-breakin torment, pondering
every hour God sent, feverishly attempting to build some
sorta bridge between the Acceptance The Duke professed
to enjoy, and the Bitterness that nonetheless snapped at
the innards ‘pon every meeting twixt myself and herself.
Solve it, I hollered, fix this agony, I don’t want spite
or grudges, no, fix it so I feel like I talk, yes.
Lightening flashes illuminating the terrible tableaux;
The Duke stood bent backed with the hands cross the
eyes, mouth mid-roar, the Ponderer curled in the corner
of the room with the fingers bit to the wrists.
But come on down, Ponderer, it’s not like that now, and
I’ll tell you why, if’n you’re ready.
Slinkin up side anew, all cautious, all suspicious.
Y’see, there is something to ponder here, but nothing so
wretched, no, nothing so destructive.
Ponder the significance of it all.
The Duke and the woman who used to be The Duchess, here
in this same station. My ticket, it points to Belfast,
points to the left. Her ticket, points somewhere else
entirely, somewhere to the right.
My ticket glistens wi the light of Naomi’s smile, see.
Hers gleams wi some other smile I never want to lay eyes
on, truth be told.
Brought together, a time spent in one another’s line a
sight, and then split, left and right.
And The Ponderer starts singing, the words of sweet
lovely Conor risin off a the fucker’s tongue;
“If you walk away, I’ll walk away
First tell me which road you will take
I don’t want to risk our paths crossing some day
So you walk that way, I’ll walk this way”
And she’s walking.
And I’m writing, I’m considering, I’m…
“Fuck my eyes, enough singing, I say, almost found
myself pondering for half a second there an then!”
Back in the café, motion restored;
“And, well, I being thinking a lot about her, see.
Probably 94% of the thinking afforded by any given day.
Which is a lot.”
“Obsession levels?”
“Far beyond it.”
Sir Fleming choking on the tea, “Sweet Fahey’s Glow!
Beyond obsession? How far beyond?”
“I told her I liked her.”
Nothin new here, nothing to see folks, wander on by,
sweet Jehovah’s knuckles, ain’t a lady been in the
presence of The Duke for half a minute in the past year
hasn’t received such declarations.
“But it’s different here, I think. Maybe. I think. Yeah.”
“Surely to fuck she doesn’t… I mean, surely…”
“She does. I think. Say no more, because the last thing
a fella wants is to fuck up this situation by jinxing
the damn thing legless fore the night’s out.”
Information shared, regardless;
Inaugural meetings outside Africa-themed café’s in
Belfast City Centre, yes. Talk of Burroughs and Doherty.
Talk of comb-overs and fringes.
Wandering round HMV with Naomi and the delightful
Joanne, in pursuit of Digital Ash In A Digital Urn,
watching the way Naomi flicks the CD’s in the Bright
Eyes section, thinking about how this is unprecedented,
the grace with which she runs a finger along the sides
of Lifted, and I’m thinking; will she?
She does. She takes hold of Lifted, or The Story Is In
The Soil, Keep Your Ear To The Ground, she’s walking
with it to the check-out, and stunned for a moment, I
am, yes.
The display racks either side of her, they bow as she
passes, and The Duke contemplating, do I bow? I feel the
need to bow. Fuck it, I’ll bow!
But no, we’re already left the store, already heading in
the direction of Great Victoria Street station, already
she’s laughing on account of something Joanne said about
Nick Cave, already I’m lost in the way she rolls her
eyes in mock-disdain when some brilliant story she’s
related reaches the conclusion, already I’m praying for
another tutting “fucksakes”, and then there it is, and
yes, it was worth the wait.
Sir Fleming unsure…
“So what are you telling me here? Did stuff happen?”
A world of stuff, yes.
“Like what?”
She hugged me, I’m saying.
The Ponderer, he’s gesturing towards the platform, look
see, the train, there it is.
Picking up the back-pack thing filled wi torn notes and
paperbacks, stepping on the cigarette end flung to the
stone just now, and reflecting.
She wouldn’t have agreed to meet me again if’n she
didn't, y’know, have thoughts.
Ponderer, ponder me this.
Is it safe, do you think, to allow these ideas and
notions to enter the caverns a the mind? Is it advisable
to let the fuckers through?
Because who knows, who can assume there won’t be some
sort of soul-searing txt message waiting the other side
a that train journey, something concerning how Naomi,
what she decided is nah, actually, the more I think
about it, the less sense it makes, this whole Hangin
With You thing. The more I look, you understand, the
more I see you for little more than some pathetic
shambling barrel a bust wank, and I want nothing to do
with you ever, so apologies but fuck you, thank you
please.
The Ponderer, he considers it, he scribbles, he sketches.
What results is that no, if she thought that, she’d have
said, or at the very least she would’ve ignored the
increasingly soppy banter flung in her direction this
past week.
And anyhow, what about The Sign?
That first meeting, see, it came at the tail end of the
first week of release for I Bet You Look Good On The
Dancefloor by Arctic Monkeys. We’d discussed it, me and
Naomi, we’d debated the worth of Arctic Monkeys no end,
we’d agreed that yeah, they’re spectacular, we’d talked
about the following week’s NME, how it was set to have
these wonderful fuckers on the front cover, how it’d be
an NME to remember, most likely.
And all of this in mind later in the eve, alone, yes,
and saying “Alright, God. What I need is some sort of
sign, I think. We all know how useless I am at this
carry-on. When she hugged me, when she said she didn’t
want me to go, mean, was that just the usual sorta
friendly farewell that pretty much means nothing at the
end of the day, or the middle of the day, or any point
in the damn day? Or was it something that hints at
something other than that? On account of it didn’t feel
like the usual sorta thing, it felt… different. But who
the fuck knows!? I liked White Noise, Lord, I can’t be
trusted, not for a damn second. So a sign, that’s what I
need, something fairly straightforward that can’t be
misinterpreted or, fuck forbid, missed entirely by yours
truly.”
And the light in the eyes when the very next day, the DJ
banterin maniacal on Radio 1, holy fuck, no-one could’ve
predicted it, Arctic Monkeys, with their debut single
they’ve gone straight to number one!
The Ponderer nods. That was The Sign.
So those notions and such, what The Ponderer suggests is
let them through.
A torrent a images and ideas and feelings and hopes
careering through the head-ways, words like Safety and
Completion and G**lfriend, words like Requitement and
Happiness and Beauty, the chorus of Time For Heroes, the
first couple minutes of Manhattan, the words of Conor;
“I’ll be your friend, you just haven’t made me yet”; the
words of Bob; “She’s got everything she needs, she’s an
artist, she don’t look back”; the words of Naomi;
“Hey, I’m runnin a bit late, I’ll be at the station
around three, ok?”
Coming to by the newsagents in Great Victoria Street
Station, and Naomi up ahead, wandering past the
turnstile, and The Ponderer sleepin in some luggage
compartment, I’ll meet you later, he says.
And fine, yes, I can do without you for a time, but be
back here at 9, y’hear, I’ll have no end a pondering to
be done, say. Feel all sortsa narratives grippin the
mind, all sortsa events needing processed.
And Belfast grinning through the glass-roof up ahead.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
Belfast. Look at you, there.
Look at you smiling that post-filth smile a yours, with
the daylight caught in your waters, with the nighttime
caught in your broken-glass alleyways.
With your windows glowin purple, green, blue, red, with
your doorways kissed by taxi headlights an drunken grins.
With your steeples caressing some hint of divinity just
beyond the skyline, with your geometrical weavings and
bindings, with your interlocked passages and your
creases and curves.
With your bar-rooms slung round the shoulders of a
staggerin, angular B minor, with your café’s tastin a
rain on a beautiful girl’s lips, with your junctions an
terminals tremblin with the reverberations a stories too
complex to be heard anywhere outside of an anechoic
chamber, where the narrative hisses ‘longside the liver
an the punchline bounds back an forth off the ribs.
With your drunkards regaling teenagers wi tales a
ungodly degradation, tales alive wi the slap of a urine-
soaked toilet lid gainst a puke-rotted hairline, and the
anonymous grunts from someplace south a the vertebrae.
With your plaster Lenin stood outside the doors a The
Kremlin, the pavements soaked in self-discovery, the
self-discovery soaked in The Sticky.
With your lovers on the benches outside City Hall, lost
in one another’s whispers neath the dead-eyed glare a
Daniel Dixon, stood there castin shadows cross the goth
kids high on glue an hair-spray, each eye blacker than
the last, every sigh that bit more anguished, and round
about, the fumes a Fringe Envy risin off a every tongue.
“Fuck your fringe, say, fuck it! This is a fringe, right
here, floppin away in the breeze!”
“Flop my arsehole! Damn fringe a yours ain’t flopped in
a lifetime, this is a fringe, fucker breaks my back it
sways so far!”
And wanderin round the back a the buses parked to the
left a the blue / black ensemble, fourteen year olds
rattlin wi the Fear, teeth gnashed to the gums, say I
can’t go over there, my god, they’re all emo now, fuck
my eyes, I spent three months an half my body-weight
tryin to look like him out The Libertines, and this is
my reward, well screw it, I say, screw it!
And towering over it all, those cranes, Samson and
Goliath, those monoliths thrustin up an out the
shipyard, those gleaming epitaphs to the industry lain
in tatters round about.
Stood defiant, and the echoes of countless heels slappin
the tarmac underneath, heels ain’t touched that walkway
in decades.
Just look at you.
And The Duke headin on through Central Station with the
notebook on the knee, with the biro scrawls cross the
white, with The Last Temptation Of Christ on the seat
beside me, with the mind staggerin blind cross the
planes of Yesterwhile, back when I saw Belfast through
the skull-fucked veil a cheap cider and warm beer fit to
wring the spleen out the face wi every mouthful.
Way back when, I say, when traipsing out bar-rooms in
the August twilight, wandering in and outta the filth-
specialists behind Castle Court, blackened storefronts
and pulsating thresholds, come on in, son, got the kinda
accessories in stock fit to scourge the guts out
physiology itself.
Back when those cranes were the writhing ghosts a Sodom
and Gomorrah caught tween the tides a the Dead Sea, and
coiled around them, some scale-jawed toothless crone
spittin an clawin at the air, tongue the colour a
cancer, hair the colour a guilt.
Back then, aye.
A different city, now.
Because you think you seen somewhere, you think you
understood something, seen nothing, aye, understood less.
Seen the horrors a the psyche solidified up ahead, seen
Belfast as an escape, as a noon train an a carrier bag
fulla oblivion, and so hypnotized wi the internal, the
external takes on all sortsa demonic proportions, the
topography sliced an grated an rearranged in nonsensical
columns.
So you think you see, but you don’t see.
See only the wolverines prowling closer from the
shadows, the heat risin off their backs, the hind legs
busted an rebuilt wi the teeth a infants.
Seen it, ah now, seen nothing, less than nothing, seen
fuck all.
Seen a fella crawlin back and forth over barroom floors
with a song caught in the gut, those sentiments bulging
behind the liver an the throat sealed in Lucifer’s grot,
and no note escapes, no words break the bindings a this
cage etched someplace within Satan’s knacker-pipes, all
there is is rumour, all there are are hints of something
maybe worth hearing, somewhere underneath the hellish
paste clingin to the larynx.
Faces wi iron seals cross the jaws, wi eyes stapled
shut, wi the nerves humpin tissue neath that monstrous
façade, teeth ground into one another, muffled
protestations;
Let me see, let me see I say, and no, nothing, whisper
seepin out the couple exposed pores is all, seepin out
an lost to the breeze.
Seen a bar-room filled wi death-yapped preachers, chewin
the muck out half-lit roll-ups, gnarled fists clutchin
crooked pencils, scrawls across the papers, say fuck
now, I’ll eat my knees if this fucker comes anywhere
near last, I say, my own knees, chew the bastards limp.
Heard the brayin and the gnashin an the gimmie this an
that and gumshy gnash gnash flitterin like ticker-tape
out Stormont Castle, and the keyboards battered bent and
broken cross knees shiverin with the cold, the death-
breath chillin the nuts a every poor bastard steps
through those doors, and the flashes a the cameras
gainst the white, and the needle-eye grins wi teeth
rotten with spite.
Seen it, I say, seen nothing.
Till the eyes of a lass with shoes that smile up at her,
till those eyes meet mine on Dublin Road, and the rain
and the laughter an the adverts side a buses an the neon
etchings either side a the street, all a this caught in
the blue, and for the first time in who knows how long,
first time since I first saw the Royal Mail building
stood like a prism flinging Belfast in every direction,
first time since then I saw it.
In her eyes an her smile I saw Belfast.
II
Few weeks back, in the train station couple miles from
where a fella might wake up every morning, give or take,
sat there writing a song, far as a man might recall,
something involving ghosts and exorcisms, something
involving the spirits a man might bump into when the
street-lights reach through the window an pinch a
certain corner of the bed, or a certain spot ‘pon the
carpet, or a certain nook beside the wardrobe, aye.
These ghosts of loves an lusts an shambolic fumblings,
these spectral remnants a filth flung freely cross the
dew.
And turning the page, ain’t got a thought in the head to
spare for these terrors, not with the sigh in the soul,
not with the name etched cross every line of every note
noted.
Naomi, the name, it’s Naomi, and there it is, hinted at,
tip-toed round, subtly suggested.
To the left, sat beside the poster advertising some fair
or other concerning tractors, sat there, I say, The
Ponderer, pondering away, chewin the bottom lip ragged,
pencil scribbles in the margins of a fella’s life, all
these diagrams and charts and reams of statistics
analysed rotten.
Ponder me this, is what The Duke announces, ponder me
this and now, not a second later, ponder me these
notions and concerns, the hell do I pay you for if not
to digest and make sense of the delirium in the mentals?
What he ponders – Something concerning time and
circumstance and luck. Something concerning rebirth and
regeneration.
Scribbling, muttering, cursing and hissing.
Eventually, an image a fella might recognise.
The Duke, there he is, sat in some café, Sir Fleming
cross the way, conversation in the key of obsession.
Taking stock.
“Well, there’s Kirsten.”
Sir Fleming nods. A given, that is. Who else?
“Oh, this girl gets the train in the mornin sometimes,
looks a bit like Christina Ricci, I probably thought
about her more than is strictly plutonic.”
“Is she an obsession?”
A shrug. “I dunno. Who isn’t, in this day and age?”
“What of Harry Potter Woman”, he’s asking, and a
previous Obsession wandering past with a tray fulla
caffeinated beverages.
“Nah, that ain’t ever gonna head no direction. She’s
‘got someone’, lest we forget, and anyroad, think I
freaked her fuckless wi all that chat of ‘Ooh, I dig
your hair somethin savage’.”
“She did have nice hair.”
“She did! Fuck my eyes she had wonderful hair. But no.”
“So she’s no longer an obsession?”
Considering. Is she? If she approached a fella here and
now, said “Yeah, by the way, turns out I was lying on
account of I was all nervous an such, what with you
being such a charming fellow an all, chances are I’d a
said something stupid, but anyroad, best we go degrade
ourselves senseless in the back row of an abandoned
theatre”, if this took place, probably she’d get a
response along the lines of “Um. Aye, ok.”
But so much effort to maintain these things when the
outcome is even a touch ambiguous, never mind obsessions
regarding folks already done stated fairly clearly that
no, ain’t no way or no how, they’re “seeing someone”,
they’ve “got someone”, they “don’t get Bright Eyes.”
The eyes alive wi Grafton Street, he pauses for a
second, gatherin thoughts. “And what about…”
“Hush now! Hush, I say, like what the Deep Purples
suggested, and to a lesser extent the Kula Shakers,
hush! We know how that tale ended.”
Sir Fleming tutting. “Well this is a fucking pitiful
display, t’is, wretched a show as any I ever gazed upon
for fear of missin something pathetic. You, who has
perfected the art of keeping multiple obsessions on the
go like they were Chinese plates spinnin top the psyche,
here and now, with hardly an obsession worth weepin
over.”
Leaning forward, will I say, will I not say, will I
suggest, will I change the topic, hells fire, there’s a
new Fahey flick on the Sci-Fi one a these nights, so the
grapevine been yackin.
“What?”
“Well, see, yes, there may be an obsession, an obsession
heretofore unnoted on account of it threatens to
transcend the fantastical, has potential hangin to it,
see.”
“Potential!? Transcendence!? What is this shindiggery?”
“Well, what it is, is I kinda met this girl, see.”
“And?”
“And, well…”
“And, well…”
“And, well…”
The station back in focus, the Ponderer foamin at the
breastplate, the hells wrong with you, I’m saying, And,
well… what??
Flingin a copy of The Film Sense at the jitterin fiend’s
teeth, say come now, the hell kinda sabotage is this,
compose yourself!
Composing nothing, terrified he is, finger pointed at
the door, and then sense and sensibility restored, it
all makes sense.
“No, The Ponderer”, I’m saying. “It’s not like that any
more.”
Wandering into the station, see, the woman what used to
be The Duchess, she’s headed towards the ticket booth,
spies a fella, yes, a smile, a “Hi”, and returned,
course.
That “hi” batted back cross the court, causes The
Ponderer to screech with unholy intensity, fucker bounds
up and flings the limbs round the rafters, yelpin and
trembling.
And he has every reason to, I understand, yes.
Couple months back the poor fucker endured 49
consecutive days of spine-breakin torment, pondering
every hour God sent, feverishly attempting to build some
sorta bridge between the Acceptance The Duke professed
to enjoy, and the Bitterness that nonetheless snapped at
the innards ‘pon every meeting twixt myself and herself.
Solve it, I hollered, fix this agony, I don’t want spite
or grudges, no, fix it so I feel like I talk, yes.
Lightening flashes illuminating the terrible tableaux;
The Duke stood bent backed with the hands cross the
eyes, mouth mid-roar, the Ponderer curled in the corner
of the room with the fingers bit to the wrists.
But come on down, Ponderer, it’s not like that now, and
I’ll tell you why, if’n you’re ready.
Slinkin up side anew, all cautious, all suspicious.
Y’see, there is something to ponder here, but nothing so
wretched, no, nothing so destructive.
Ponder the significance of it all.
The Duke and the woman who used to be The Duchess, here
in this same station. My ticket, it points to Belfast,
points to the left. Her ticket, points somewhere else
entirely, somewhere to the right.
My ticket glistens wi the light of Naomi’s smile, see.
Hers gleams wi some other smile I never want to lay eyes
on, truth be told.
Brought together, a time spent in one another’s line a
sight, and then split, left and right.
And The Ponderer starts singing, the words of sweet
lovely Conor risin off a the fucker’s tongue;
“If you walk away, I’ll walk away
First tell me which road you will take
I don’t want to risk our paths crossing some day
So you walk that way, I’ll walk this way”
And she’s walking.
And I’m writing, I’m considering, I’m…
“Fuck my eyes, enough singing, I say, almost found
myself pondering for half a second there an then!”
Back in the café, motion restored;
“And, well, I being thinking a lot about her, see.
Probably 94% of the thinking afforded by any given day.
Which is a lot.”
“Obsession levels?”
“Far beyond it.”
Sir Fleming choking on the tea, “Sweet Fahey’s Glow!
Beyond obsession? How far beyond?”
“I told her I liked her.”
Nothin new here, nothing to see folks, wander on by,
sweet Jehovah’s knuckles, ain’t a lady been in the
presence of The Duke for half a minute in the past year
hasn’t received such declarations.
“But it’s different here, I think. Maybe. I think. Yeah.”
“Surely to fuck she doesn’t… I mean, surely…”
“She does. I think. Say no more, because the last thing
a fella wants is to fuck up this situation by jinxing
the damn thing legless fore the night’s out.”
Information shared, regardless;
Inaugural meetings outside Africa-themed café’s in
Belfast City Centre, yes. Talk of Burroughs and Doherty.
Talk of comb-overs and fringes.
Wandering round HMV with Naomi and the delightful
Joanne, in pursuit of Digital Ash In A Digital Urn,
watching the way Naomi flicks the CD’s in the Bright
Eyes section, thinking about how this is unprecedented,
the grace with which she runs a finger along the sides
of Lifted, and I’m thinking; will she?
She does. She takes hold of Lifted, or The Story Is In
The Soil, Keep Your Ear To The Ground, she’s walking
with it to the check-out, and stunned for a moment, I
am, yes.
The display racks either side of her, they bow as she
passes, and The Duke contemplating, do I bow? I feel the
need to bow. Fuck it, I’ll bow!
But no, we’re already left the store, already heading in
the direction of Great Victoria Street station, already
she’s laughing on account of something Joanne said about
Nick Cave, already I’m lost in the way she rolls her
eyes in mock-disdain when some brilliant story she’s
related reaches the conclusion, already I’m praying for
another tutting “fucksakes”, and then there it is, and
yes, it was worth the wait.
Sir Fleming unsure…
“So what are you telling me here? Did stuff happen?”
A world of stuff, yes.
“Like what?”
She hugged me, I’m saying.
The Ponderer, he’s gesturing towards the platform, look
see, the train, there it is.
Picking up the back-pack thing filled wi torn notes and
paperbacks, stepping on the cigarette end flung to the
stone just now, and reflecting.
She wouldn’t have agreed to meet me again if’n she
didn't, y’know, have thoughts.
Ponderer, ponder me this.
Is it safe, do you think, to allow these ideas and
notions to enter the caverns a the mind? Is it advisable
to let the fuckers through?
Because who knows, who can assume there won’t be some
sort of soul-searing txt message waiting the other side
a that train journey, something concerning how Naomi,
what she decided is nah, actually, the more I think
about it, the less sense it makes, this whole Hangin
With You thing. The more I look, you understand, the
more I see you for little more than some pathetic
shambling barrel a bust wank, and I want nothing to do
with you ever, so apologies but fuck you, thank you
please.
The Ponderer, he considers it, he scribbles, he sketches.
What results is that no, if she thought that, she’d have
said, or at the very least she would’ve ignored the
increasingly soppy banter flung in her direction this
past week.
And anyhow, what about The Sign?
That first meeting, see, it came at the tail end of the
first week of release for I Bet You Look Good On The
Dancefloor by Arctic Monkeys. We’d discussed it, me and
Naomi, we’d debated the worth of Arctic Monkeys no end,
we’d agreed that yeah, they’re spectacular, we’d talked
about the following week’s NME, how it was set to have
these wonderful fuckers on the front cover, how it’d be
an NME to remember, most likely.
And all of this in mind later in the eve, alone, yes,
and saying “Alright, God. What I need is some sort of
sign, I think. We all know how useless I am at this
carry-on. When she hugged me, when she said she didn’t
want me to go, mean, was that just the usual sorta
friendly farewell that pretty much means nothing at the
end of the day, or the middle of the day, or any point
in the damn day? Or was it something that hints at
something other than that? On account of it didn’t feel
like the usual sorta thing, it felt… different. But who
the fuck knows!? I liked White Noise, Lord, I can’t be
trusted, not for a damn second. So a sign, that’s what I
need, something fairly straightforward that can’t be
misinterpreted or, fuck forbid, missed entirely by yours
truly.”
And the light in the eyes when the very next day, the DJ
banterin maniacal on Radio 1, holy fuck, no-one could’ve
predicted it, Arctic Monkeys, with their debut single
they’ve gone straight to number one!
The Ponderer nods. That was The Sign.
So those notions and such, what The Ponderer suggests is
let them through.
A torrent a images and ideas and feelings and hopes
careering through the head-ways, words like Safety and
Completion and G**lfriend, words like Requitement and
Happiness and Beauty, the chorus of Time For Heroes, the
first couple minutes of Manhattan, the words of Conor;
“I’ll be your friend, you just haven’t made me yet”; the
words of Bob; “She’s got everything she needs, she’s an
artist, she don’t look back”; the words of Naomi;
“Hey, I’m runnin a bit late, I’ll be at the station
around three, ok?”
Coming to by the newsagents in Great Victoria Street
Station, and Naomi up ahead, wandering past the
turnstile, and The Ponderer sleepin in some luggage
compartment, I’ll meet you later, he says.
And fine, yes, I can do without you for a time, but be
back here at 9, y’hear, I’ll have no end a pondering to
be done, say. Feel all sortsa narratives grippin the
mind, all sortsa events needing processed.
And Belfast grinning through the glass-roof up ahead.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
NOTE
For reasons explained in Mondo Podcast Episode
14, Part One of this article was never written,
or never published, at any rate. Download the
"hilarious" podcast for to find out why and so
on.
For reasons explained in Mondo Podcast Episode
14, Part One of this article was never written,
or never published, at any rate. Download the
"hilarious" podcast for to find out why and so
on.
