House IV

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When they opened the door they didn’t find the scene they expected. You’re old and you’re faded and you’re on the shelf. Laughter down blind alleys. When she whispers her lips pucker and she looks sort of foolish and affected. The light flickering in the hallway. Let’s try to get this straight. It wasn’t what they, what we expected, not the same at all. They thought at first that someone had tampered with the lights (though why anyone would do that is beyond me), but on closer inspection it appeared that the problem was with the electrical supply to the whole building. Stupid old duffer. When the rats scratch along the skirting board Max, feverishly asleep in his little bed, has nightmares. They didn’t open they door: I did. When I asked her what she was doing (it wasn’t even her house, not really), she took my hand and said I want you to fuck me. Will someone do something about that light? It’s driving me mad. At the end of the hallway, in the locked room: a woman, laughing, laughing. This is no joking matter, young lady. Max can’t sleep: he has bad dreams.

This is the 4th part of the House series. To see the whole sequence so far, click here.

All texts and images on this site are the copyright of James Knight. All rights reserved.

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Mon

I have collected all of the tweets that I have written so far about a character called Mon. Why Mon? Because he’s nearly a man, half a monster and has only one eye.

I don’t know how this tweet series will develop. I learned long ago not to worry too much about planning. It will be what it will be.

It is suddenly very cold.

Mon opens his eye. He sees little: fog, the ground. A skeletal tree.

Where am I? he thinks.

Mon listens. He can hear distant noises through the fog: laughter, gunshots, cars, birdsong.

So I am in the world, he thinks.

Mon shivers. He’s naked. The need to warm himself is sudden, imperious.

His body’s other demands soon follow. He’s hungry, thirsty, horny.

With a lurching motion, shivering violently, Mon propels himself through the fog.

Sloping ground gives way and he finds himself on a road.

The fog is thinner here. The road is empty.

The distant sounds seem fainter.

Mon curls up against the cold, foetus-like, on his side.

Despite feeling painfully cold, Mon wants desperately to get up and hunt for food. His stomach moans mournfully.

He also has an erection.

He feels like a marionette, pulled one way then another by his bodily needs.

So this is life, he thinks.

Mon falls asleep.

When he wakes he’s so cold he can’t move.

Is it possible to be alive and have rigor mortis? he wonders.

A rat crawls onto Mon, taking him for a corpse.

Mon waits until it is near his face, then opens his mouth. A slow, painful operation!

The rat is curious. It peers into Mon’s maw.

Mon waits until the head is in his mouth, then bites it clean off.

Nutrition at last!

Mon has eaten his fill. This gives him the strength to straighten out from his agonised coil. He stands, walks.

Rat is tasty, he thinks.

Further along, the road is overrun by vegetation. Mon collapses onto his belly and starts slithering through. He’s aware of movement.

Insects are at war. They seethe, scurry, make bristling formations. Mon sees heads, abdomens, legs, thoraxes, severed, crushed.

To make matters worse, his prostrate progress is impeded by the aggressive erection whose pangs continue to torment him.

Maybe life would be better if I were a girl, Mon ponders.

Around him, creation quakes, agitates, cries, eats itself.

Fog, wracked undergrowth, insects, the slaughterhouse of nature.

Mon closes his eye in horror.

But what he imagines is worse still.

Mon sees towers of blood.

He sees lakes awash with the dead.

He sees spiny forms in a dark womb.

He sees a head on the end of a bayonet.

He sees a screaming mouth.

He sees eyes squinting from a white blast.

He sees the King of Bones.

He sees the moon being torn like paper.

He sees smashed TVs.

He sees men whispering in a locked room.

He sees bodies falling through space.

He sees an iron pyramid, neon-lit.

Mon opens his eye and weeps.

All texts and images on this site are the copyright of James Knight. All rights reserved.

RIP, Bird King

The Bird King is dead.

What was he?

He was a vampire shrinking from empty mirrors wiping blood from black bristles burnt feathers

He was a giant maggot oozing in a throne a toilet his excremental seat of power the chair a shocking sight the chair killing him frying in the chair’s blue embrace

He was a fool telling impossible stories unable to cope with the simplest of things doors shops television conversation memory crisps road markings the silly billy

He was a poet who hated poets

He was a fop in flamboyant attire a right pretty boy pretty polly strutting peacock decorating himself for outrageous displays of virility look at me look at me preening in a blaze of feathers and fabrics

He was a tyrant a dictator a bird-brained autocrat

He was a monster a man an animal

He was a poor little thing quivering with desires longings despair

He was a sadistic experimenter hatching bad machines bad babies bad dreams sending them out to harrow the world make it a hell a mirror to the hell in his head

He was a hapless nobody an Everyman fumbling in the dark stumbling tripping over obstacles bananas words

He was a daddy a mummy a creator a maker a broken god

He was none of the above

Now he’s nothing

The Bird King is dead

The Death of the Bird King can be purchased here.

All texts and images on this site are the copyright of James Knight. All rights reserved.