all-my-grace asked: I hang on to your words like a child to a playground swing. Knowing very well that the moment I release my grip, I'll be flung back into the sorrow depths of my concrete relaity. Write more stuff, okay?

<3

only if you do!

“The usual please, mate.” Sean Hart said to the burly man in the Bargain Booze on Leece Street.

“Two bottles’a Jameson’s? Alright.” the man pulled two identical bottles from the shelf behind him and placing them on the counter.

“Cheers Frank,” Said Sean, placing today and tomorrow night’s entertainment in a plastic carrier-bag.

“Just one thing, lad … I know it’s got nothing to do with me like but drinking this much every night … it aint good for ya mate,” Said Frank.

‘Who the fuck are you, and since when can some fat middle-aged ogre judge me? My name’s in papers, art magazines, people know me.’ Sean thought.

“Cheers Frank, see you Tuesday.” Sean about-turned before a reply could be given, opting to zip his coat outside in the rain rather than be berated ironically for finding solace at the bottom of the bottle by the man selling him it.

Walking back to his apartment through Mathew Street, Sean caught the gaze of the statue of Carl Jung, an old Swiss philosopher. Jung claimed he had a dream about Liverpool and referred to it as being the ‘pool of life’. In his dream a Magnolia of gorgeous reddish blossoms grew out of an island of light, surrounded by mountains of sludge, mist and blackness; luckily the bloke never visited the place. There’s plenty of sludge here, he was right about that, but a pool of life? Some sort of unearthly font of well-being & goodness? There’s no life to be found, no energy or spark amongst Liverpool’s people; all is sick, and bleak, and miserable.

Finally he arrived home; shaking the rain off at the door he left his coat in the hall and turned the heating up. As he filled his apartment with light, realisation hit him as it always did that he was alone.

To Hell with it, Sean put his iPod in the dock-station and cycled through the artists, it didn’t take long. Matthaeus Passion by Johann Sebastian Bach came on; before long Sean was back in his comfort zone of whiskey and classical music. The German composer never failed to stir up something carnal and serene in Sean. Had tonight not been a drinking night, he’d be painting something religious in honour of Bach’s secular focus.

The clock above his fireplace hadn’t yet struck midnight, but Sean was already laying unconscious on the couch again. Had he noticed the broken glass digging into his arm it may never have gotten infected, and he’d still have it. But a bottle of Jameson’s had shut his mind off for the night and he’d not be waking till late tomorrow afternoon.

Sean awoke around mid-day, surrounded by his own dried blood. His head was banging out a brutal hang-over; coupled with the pain and heavy weight of his left arm, he felt worse than ever before. His wound scared him, he’d never seen so much blood and the thought that it was all his own made him queasy. Without any deliberation he reached for the un-opened bottle of Jameson’s on the coffee-table. Holding the bottle with his good arm, he bit the top off and drank a mouthful of it straight before spluttering and attempting to rise.

His legs buckled, he couldn’t do it. Instead he pulled out his mobile and dialled an ambulance. He was unconscious by the time it arrived; when he awoke he’d already undergone surgery and was stitched up in bed at The Royal Hospital in town. Realisation over the loss of his arm came slowly; he chose to believe the ‘feeling’ that it was still there rather than the evidence his eyes were presenting him … until the doctor entered the room.

“Ah, Mr Hart. You’re lucky we found you. Any later and you’d have lost more than an arm, those infections spread fast.” The aged doctor held out a glass of water.

Lucky? What kind of life is there for an artist with only one arm?

“Yeah, thanks.” Sean accepted the water, then, after taking a sip, smirked and said “Got anything stronger?”

“Aye, but you’re not having any. Your blood-alcohol levels are something else; we could sell shots of it as near-pure alcohol if … regulations would allow it.” The doctor laughed.

“Funny.” Sean said.

“Sorry, but you have only yourself to blame for this. You have a very serious drinking problem. We’ll be working with you to get that sorted in the coming months.” Sean choked on the water at hearing this.

“I’m fine, I don’t need help. I’m an adult …” the doctor rose his eyebrows “I won’t be needing anything else, doctor, just some rest, so if that’s everything you had to say …” Sean nodded to the door.

“There was one more thing; it’s customary in situations such as this to call those closest to the patient … there was only one number on your phone however, Carrie?” A hole opened up in Sean’s heart. “She says she’s on her way with her husband, she should be here soon, actually, so you won’t be alone in this, you have people who care about you and they’re prepared to help.”

“What!? Carrie’s coming here, after everything … no, you can’t let her, call her and tell her not to bother.” Fear took over him.

The doctor smirked, “She sounded concerned on the phone … her man didn’t seem too happy about it either.”

“Jack? Odd, I thought he hated me.” Sean said.

“Aye, I mean he seemed unhappy about her coming to see you, not that you’re hurt. A lot of shouting in the background from him, bit of a twirp is he?” the doctor asked.

“Yeah, you might say that.” Sean couldn’t hide his own excitement, or dampen the hope which was growing inside him. There was a knock on the door.

“Ah, that’ll be them now. I’ll leave you to it,” The doctor nodded and walked towards the door. He didn’t open it though, Jack did that. The pair stood awkwardly for a while, before Carrie pushed past.

“Um, best for only one visitor at a time; stress and what-not, you’ll have to wait outside until she’s done with him,” The doctor glared at Jack, their eyes locked for a while, Jack broke first.

Nodding to the doctor, he called to his wife who didn’t reply, “I’ll be outside if you need me” before departing the room. The doctor stole a glance at Sean & Carrie and smiled, then left too.

She was in tears over him, grasping his one remaining hand with both of hers, Carrie buried her head in his chest. Despite the loss of his arm, this was turning out to be one of the best days he’d had in years.

“It’s so horrible, Sean. I don’t know what to say, I’m still in shock,” Said Carrie.

“I know, I’m gutted. So much wasted potential … i needed that arm for my passion, what is it I’m living for now?”

“Don’t say that, you still have your good hand, you can still paint!”

“Paint? I’m talking about juggling, I enrolled into Juggling College last week.”

Carrie wiped her eyes and laughed, “You’re something else, Sean Hart.”

“Nah, I’ve not changed. You have though, how’s married life treati-” Before Sean could finish, Jack burst into the room with two cups of Starbucks coffee.

“Got you both something, thought if I’m not allowed in I may aswell make myself useful … and it’s better than that hospital shite.” He passed a cup to his wife and then Sean. “I don’t know how you take your coffee, so I had to guess I’m afraid.” Jack’s face was stone, there was no sympathy or care to it. Sean sensed the calculated decision to interject with coffee to be naught but a means to gain access to the room.

“Black actually, Jack. Could you go back and I’ll pay you later? Could really do with a cup right now.”

“Can’t you just drink that?” Said Jack

“I’m lactose intolerant, milk messes me up pretty bad, sorry.” Sean lied.

“But I’ve only just got back,” said Jack

“Jack! Please, for me.” Carrie interrupted, placing her hand on his back. Sean whinced seeing the contact.

“Okay, fine, sorry,” Jack kissed her. Sean looked away. “Won’t be long,” he left.

Despite their physical closeness, Sean was reminded of their underlying distance.

“Sorry, but I’ve always wondered …” Carrie frowned, but Sean persisted. “What exactly do you and Bigfoot talk about? He’s about as interesting as a cow, but not half as useful.”

“I love him, Sean.”

“You loved me too once, remember?”

“That was different, we were kids.” Carrie stood and walked to the window, something caught her attention on the roof opposite, a bird or maybe a plastic-bag which had been sent by the wind to keep her eyes busy. “Don’t do this now, I didn’t come for this.”

Sean thought about how the light from the window gently caressed Carrie’s skin and his hand longed to touch hers. He hated how he fell for something new about her every time they met.

“I just don’t understand why you’ve made this so … utterly hopeless.” he said.

Carrie sighed and rubbed her eyes, still with her back to Sean. The pigeon on the roof opposite took flight, after a while she nodded.

“I thought I’d be able to see you again, that we could just be friends,” she turned to face him, tears flooded from her eyes, “But you’ve not changed at all. You’re a teenager trapped inside an adult’s body; for Christ’s sake, Sean.”

She headed for the door, he called after her: “Not staying for tea, then?” She stopped and grunted in frustration. “You know I love you” he said.

“Love? All those messages and letters you sent me? That’s not love, Sean, it’s obsession -you’re sick.” When Carrie turned to look at him before leaving, it was as if she were Medusa. He felt cold, barren, like all hopes for the future were about to walk out with her. Then they did. Although it didn’t surprise him that she left, in fact he expected her to do so, it didn’t mean he’d escape the feeling of shock and emptiness when it happened.

The distraction she provided from the realisation that his arm was lost now subsided, and in doing so a fresh wave of self-pity washed over him.

Sean grimaced at the thought of self-pity. He needed a drink.

-ndru

Words, words, words,
there are too many words
(told by an idiot, signifying nothing)
on tumblr

:(

-ndru

snapshotsequence asked: thanks you for the follow, I had to follow back obviously, your words are simple, lovely, complex, I can't stop reading now that I've begun. Have an excellent day c:

heyyy, thanks! I’m sporadic. Don’t trust my writing style! I’ve still yet to settle on one … which I don’t think is a good thing; if I focussed I may become good at it - but variety is the spice of life, or whatever, and I have too much fun messing around :D

Have a nice day too!

I need to feel you lying naked beneath me;
to lick and taste your body, completely,
to savour every flavour;
and bite the parts of you that need to be bit,
while licking those which need to be licked.

I want to grip your neck,
to exemplify my dominance,
and grab and spank your arse,
that sexy-perky-monument.

My tongue wants to write
a sensuous poem on your tits;
my dick’s booked a flight
down between your lower lips (SORRY)

-ndru

Note-to-self, don’t write while horny.
And finish that last English assignment.
And fap.

shut up world

i want someone to chop off my tongue and snap my fingers so I can stop being such a derp.

ndru’s aren’t meant to communicate.

Anonymous asked: tell us about someone you love.

I’m not good enough with words to do Danni justice. So I’ll borrow Vladimir Nabokov’s instead:

“Take me, take my purity, take my torment. Your loneliness is my loneliness, and however long or short your love may be, I am prepared for everything, because around us spring summons us to humanness and good, because the sky and the firmament radiate divine beauty, and because I love you.”

-ndru

Cannons full of malice, ship fuelled with greed;
If we play this night right
The saps’ll beg on bended knees;
that we just take their possessions, not touch
their daughters, wives, sisters - ‘Please sir, please!’

Cruising through the mist now, no guards heard or seen
Moon at our backs, drifting forwards on a breeze
Waiting for the captain’s orders, before we can proceed;
He was born in France they say, but found home in the sea
The Menace is what they call him, old Willie Macéne

Cut-purses and knifemen, riflemen, buccaneers, and more
“Stick with me lads, you’ll never go a night sober,
never go hungry with a stomach full of salted pork!”
He bought us all a round, so we raised our grog to his call
“We’re all in this together, the future’s glistening gold;
Diamonds, jewels, spice, and silver; easy work, truth be told!”

A frigate full of soldiers signals us to turn around
We ignore the ship, keep sailing, play deaf to all the sound
“The shops are closed, the inns are full; what brings you to our town?”
With a cheer and a leer and the raise of his pistol pair,
Macéne sprang to the guardrail, and roared to his crew:
“Lads! Show these landlubbers what’s in a dead man’s chest!”

Cannons burst, breaking through the night,
the navy ship began to sink, no chance of flight
a full broadside closes tired eyes, and made the port ours,
while, unsparingly, made widows of two hundred sailors’ wives.

We pull into dock wanting nothing more,
than to drink, and pillage, and bed several whores -
but Willie wouldn’t have it, Willie wanted quiet;
pistols-drawn he gathered the townsfolk in the court.

Someone found a powdered wig, and tossed it to The Menace
who wore it like a judge, and put on a show for us all;
“You know who I am, kids? I’m Willie Macéne.”
The crowd shuddered as they heard his name,
they’d all heard the tales about his fame,
“The slaughterer of sons, the
hanger of husbands, the
flattener of fathers, the
butcherer of Britons;”
A woman let out a moan and fainted,
a crewman picked her up and carried her indoors,
later he’d say she ‘owed him one’, but take it regardless.

The pirates gathered all the drink, and passed the mugs about,
the boatswain filled everybody’s cup, even if they said no;
“They say I’m the scourge of the ocean,
some badguy bringer of woe,
but will you raise a glass with me now, me hearties,
and sing a yo-ho-ho!?”

-ndru (bored, editing an old poem I wrote in 2010)

So-so-so-lonely. Help?