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Issue Six features part of the poem '25'
by Chrissy Williams, shown here in full.

25

Chrissy Williams

this is it: last chance
leave now and make the last train home
or stay and
“If you don’t remember where you came from,
you will never really be able to know where you are going.”

Mary
puts her pen down
glances out at the square
kids at the bus stop
annoy her
drags up one leg of her tights
and lights a cigarette
meanwhile I’m dying
I’m going to stay
I’m going to buy a pair
of shiny, red slippers
and stay
in my basement
in my cave

the city wasn’t like this
city was full of walkers
sleeping; locking up the day
gazing open-mouthed
charged
late night under the streetlights
men vomiting over the car from both sides
glazed in orange rain
the paving stones shifting under foot
tonking out the rhythm home
always rustling in the rubbish
the tiger-types rule the town

Mary had a few drinks
felt a little happy
then her friend came in
didn’t want to stop
she left alone late
and tired

there aren’t any homeless people here
on the contrary
everyone knows where i live
everyone’s been through
the batcave

but all i see are tourists:
people who weren’t born here
Jackson
doesn’t know what he’s doing here
there are no extra channels
not even five
a white horse ambles slowly round the square
and no one has dishwashers
he’s prose
but he’s built
like superman’s shithouse
if you ever need one — he’s your guy

Jack picks a glass up wipes it puts it back
he’s been here thirty years
he knows everything
Jack picks a glass up
wipes it
puts it back
and waits

city was bursting with tourists
the roman walls creaking
with the incessant clicking of platitudes
but here
the lips of the deep lake rise
to meet my eyes in silence

I don’t know why I came
I honest-to-godmother
don’t know why I came
what kind of person chases work
into the middle of nowhere?
the walk
the hills, lakes
the flying monkeys chase
but I’m hearing something else
hoofbeats rustling this way
underneath a kind of hum
need more air
need: get out
i had this great idea about life

there’s an old abandoned railway track
for picking blackberries above dog-leg height
but i’m stumbling
biting the air
trying to find a road that’s less well trodden
so i climb the mud slide
falling away from my feet i reach the top
(i am being too obvious)
on the perfect hilltop circled with trees
it’s all i can do to exhale

I’m only allowed a certain number of contacts
according to my 8210
I heard Tenacious D
had the same problem with Friendster
of course it’s less relevant now
at 6pm in the rain on top of a village
where the only signal i get
is in a 3ft radius

Mary had this great idea about life
props the bar up
pats the dog
talks about book club wildly
it is a tuesday
“If On A Winter’s Night A Traveller”
and who is really reading who
Mary
is reading herself
while Jack looks on and smiles
at Jackson shaking hands, teaching the red setters
to call them “potato chips” when they beg

and then the storm clouds came
and i am watching the lightning strike
because it is such a dark night
although i am twisting weeping in the rain
and i don’t need anyone else
and i’m just like everybody else
i had this great idea that lightning is caused
by electrical charges in the sky
and i wander back to my cavern the long way
through the mud
and my feet are warm
this is only temporary
and only i am here

there’s no place like home
but my slippers are splitting at the seams
i’m screaming no
“we’re not done yet”
and Mary’s coming to
although she needs her beauty sleep
she had to learn it for herself
stuck in this forest
there’s never enough time

but i stand my ground
and remember to watch horizons reappear
through clouds that drift along like dragons:
there’s never enough time

Jack hears secrets
wipes them, puts them back
on shelves that span decades
and the fire is rustling
everyone sighs
forgetful

drive to get the people out
says Antoine
so I can take Hélène for a walk
in the nothing
she chases rabbits with insults
and stares, stunned with fear
if she meets a goat
“this is not a dog,” she thinks
but Jackson laughs and puts his drink down
and his jacket on
“where to next?” he smiles

visitors trickle through this place
playing cricket like Dan
and have the scars to show for it
we’re not thirteen any more
we’re a quarter of a century
that makes a girl think
there’s no place like home
and into the wee, small hours
Mary writes:

“scars are worn like logos in the city
here they are pawed and pondered
and someone kiss it better
there’s nothing like a city”

i sit in my circle-top of trees
watching the parade
and i am melting in space
i could rest forever
pressing the flesh on my back
into this tree

Mary looked through grandma’s photos for an hour
she saw people and places
that she knew were real
heard stories of family
who stuck their feet in the oven
to heat them up
pawed the brown and white and wanted to steal
her grandmother as a young girl
her grandfather
as a dashing soldier, holster and all
death makes her crazy
everyone makes her crazy
last chance:
if she checks out now
it might be perfect

as the cab pulls up to the noisy corner
and he helps her get her bag out
she’ll think
“we could all be free” and “imperfection is perfect”

logging on, she finds her electric community
she won’t make outgoing calls
she’ll breathe the internet
and greet the world with sighs and avatars
she knows
she’ll never ride
she knows

one flick of the switch
one step out of synch
touching the water is touching the world and

*pooof*

it will all be gone

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