[threads]: FrankieFurter659 (Part One): A Video

[Buzz cut, portly, forty-something, black and orange torn shirt, sits in a leather office chair, looking into the camera; he rubs his palms over his face; he groans; he grins; he picks up a beer bottle and drinks:] Hi guys. I’ve done something important today. Something I’ve felt like doing for a long time, and I mean, a long time. As some of you may know, I’ve been having trouble in the community for, like, wow, [he runs fingers through his beard] months now. It’s been a long shitty time. I don’t even know where to begin. (more…)

No Cygnet for Sleep: 13

River Ram Press #InspireWriters #InspireReaders

‘No Cygnet for Sleep’ contains strong language, sexual scenes, drug use, and gore.

The Truth is the Myth

By Jivan Ward

I say, Suna? What about her?
Ané stand at my confusion. She pull door plain sight hidden in the wall. Open to spiral staircase like descent to hell and wind blow out say, Stay away. We down flights round and down round and chill, grab arm and no sound but echo of sole and stair steel then stair concrete and brick and gravel crunch. Ané smartphone light white beacon to unknown. Walls peek out wet and mould green strands down to floor and stairs plateau and long corridor lit by dim light. Green door: Warning High Voltage Danger of Death. She turn off smartphone light to rattle keys and rattle up and into the world above, a jingle for deadeye Patches. I imagine their saturate blue eye twinkle and…

View original post 355 more words

No Cygnet for Sleep: 12

River Ram Press #InspireWriters #InspireReaders

‘No Cygnet for Sleep’ contains strong language, sexual scenes, drug use, and gore.

And Gaslight

By Jivan Ward

Ané lead down stainless steel corridor. Same blur shine same disinfectant death pong all same except blinds drawn down no dead-eyes today. Maybe I was supposed to see. Maybe they have a dead-eye Tuesdays. She knee length red suit dress calm no expression but for concrete slab say, We’ve tried all types, different races, different classes, genes, collecting information, beta readings, our tests are generally successful but there’s a grace period then a 90% chance that a Patch will die. She turn to blind take out remote and blind rise and I not look until I see corner eye her dead matted brown hair and white cud from mouth to stainless steel counter. Dead-eye blue stare at TV. Ané look down corridor. I say, But there’s more to it right?

Her office…

View original post 401 more words

No Cygnet for Sleep: 11

River Ram Press #InspireWriters #InspireReaders

‘No Cygnet for Sleep’ contains strong language, sexual scenes, drug use, and gore.

 No Escape From Eagle’s Lair

By Jivan Ward

Feel like ghost that haunt house now centenary as I walk through doors. Different. Just perspective change. I not wear those love goggles I wear fear and paranoia like second skin bumpy like bitten by thousand mosquitoes. Ané open door saw confusion start up smile to cold shoulder she invite me in and I stand to wait for sign of what to say or what to do. Small talk guise of radar phantom fingers feeling out feeling. She talk with intention cocooned – but what butterfly? Think I abandon without contact leave two month relationship in a murmur past. She swallow doubt and offer me seat at table to talk and eat and thankfully say, Beer or wine? I sit look down corridor and gallery of pictures look round…

View original post 438 more words

No Cygnet for Sleep: 10

River Ram Press #InspireWriters #InspireReaders

‘No Cygnet for Sleep’ contains strong language, sexual scenes, drug use, and gore.

No Impasse For Cattle

By Jivan Ward

There small window in her apartment overlook park and service station. Watch damp wood window sill go green. Watch leaves fall clog drain and disintegrate under tyre and cold like glass sheeting. We turn off phones, unplug TV, she no modem. There no connection outside but that window and park and service station. Watch cars come and go and fill up. Watch families come and go and play. Watch Suna go and come, I only stay. Part me sorry. She open my eye to Xana and Ané and I just sleep and eat what she bring and look out window at park and service station. She touch leg say, We need to go back to the lab. She squeeze arm say, We need to find out what they’re doing. Sit…

View original post 412 more words


Some say ghosts walk these streets,
some say we are lost:
Mothers have shouted at their children,
and fallen under the second-hand swipe.
Businessmen have snorted, up white mounds of Coca,
and down on the skulls under their shoes.
Students have thrown up, pissed, and convinced themselves
of distorted philosophies, over bollards, and inside phone booths.
Expats have tasted and smelled, travelled; to an unknown
suffused by generations of in-jokes and do-nots.
Secretaries have slipped, into flat soles, out of French windows, and
over binders of address books, and baby toys mauled by teething toddlers.
Fathers have hit, with fists, and folly,
and ripped tickets beside traffic wardens.
Baristas have spat, cried, and confessed
into everything on the menu.
Professors have proselytized, the virginal, the ignorant,
and published to deafening criticism.
Militants‘ dreams of colourless cities and faces,
shrink with the Arctic, into an ocean, with no forgiveness.
Board members, sip on scotch and soda, and side wind
like serpents, to yachts and bikinis, paid by retirement funds.


Like other curious occupations, a lab technician,
looks at the smallest parts of the smallest atoms in the wide, wild world:
A politician, bumbling, chuckles as his silver-tongue begins to rust,
blame it on the Earl Grey, the scotch and daddy’s trust fund.
An actress weeps on the stage for glory; no other lover had infatuated
her with a vacancy for such melancholy.
A driving instructor watches, the traffic lights blink,
a ventricle to the veins of vapid city life.
A grocer hears a little laughter, before the click and crack of
a goblin’s gun firing mounds of metal into a father’s back.
A coroner stares at what is to come, the irony of his life
is that he’ll end up where he once, studied, and examined meat on a counter.
A prostitute, smoking on a futon, hears weird whimpering in her bathroom,
and finds her hands holding the businessman who spent his son’s university fund.
A boxer feints left and right, rook to hook his opponent, clean, right in the bishop.
A doctor barks orders when urgency is needed;
the life of a little girl is more than leaving.
A carpenter, cuts and sands with precision, how to
shape time into a table, is the gift his hands have been given.
A builder piles high, not bricks, but slots where memories
are imbedded, from a child to their wedding day.
Some say ghosts walk these streets.
But under the microscope
At least we are free.

On Pynchon in China Town


The moon shone cold on the tarmac, cobble, pavement streets.
I had wandered into China Town to try and avoid the crowds of the Square,
and after stumbling into an even larger hubbub,
I thought I saw the sight, of something rare like unicorns, or a full packet of crisps. Though, I’m quite sure it could have been, maybe, you. A strange paranoia inserted itself within me.
There were no V-2 rockets, marching bands of monkeys and strippers looking for money, no guiding pigs, aggressive adenoids destroying cities, no crowds of people dancing, singing grandiose choruses and limericks, or whole chapters, vignettes and sentences wafting over me.

Was that you? In the black trainers, the black jeans, dirty, not washed for weeks, the denim jacket, the red hunting hat, and the thick sunglasses, haggling over a Tamagotchi, on that cold December evening?
Was that you, sitting on a stone step, eating, watching, and willing people to walk past you?
Was that you, in the bowler shoes, the green suit, pea green trousers, pea green blazer and a pea green hat, buying bootleg Beijing DVDs?
Was that you, in the poncho, with a thick moustache, smoking a hand rolled cigarette?
In the alleyway, sitting, feet outstretched across the cobbles, rolling a joint?
Back turned, pants down, crack showing, pissing into a bin?
In the mask, visage like a veil, a vestige of villain and victim?
Or should I look for a yellow man, paper bagged, question marked, with slits for sight?

Then out of the corner of my eye,
The mute horn, Trystero, graffiti’d onto a bollard.
Where is the nearest post box? Where is the nearest theatre?
Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.
I felt the venereal overflow of every facet of human experience;
thought and sound, craft and machine, every creed, every migration and generation, colours, pastel and neon, sounds of thousands of voices mumbling,
murmuring, every single inflection and dialect, succinct, every element and atom of every cell, every bond, moving, praying
for their stories to be heard, to be written.
Fantastic tales,
weird, wiry, tales of disturbance from the norm,
from what things are supposed to be, to what
they might, really, be.
On the ball of your pen,
On the ribbon of your typewriter
On the keys of your keyboard,
Ruggles, I feel alive.