Continuing the theme of words set to music, Robin and I are still collaborating, in what’s proving to be a really interesting project.

The writing is centred on a fictional village, with a pub (the Lamb of Sussex) at the heart.

This piece does not include the Lamb, but does use landmarks I’ve borrowed from reality.

This piece is perhaps a bit more contraversial than others I’ve written, and comes from the persepctive of a teenager struggling to express themselves.

Perhaps this teen is misunderstood, for whatever reason, and relations with family have been strained to breaking point.

On the cusp of adulthood, independence conflicts with security, and world views collide, as the teen develops her own reality, conflicting with that of her parents’.

I don’t want to spoil the piece – or the excellent music Robin has composed to complement the writing.

So please hit play, sit back and listen.

Please like and share, and let me know what you think.

Away in the Village

Away in the Village

Away in the village, a man sits crying into his hands, into the darkness, into the night, a light outside casting shadows upon him and his wife can hear him crying, she can’t do anything for him and she’s tried, she’s tried to console her lost man however he sobs on, and on, blaming his inadequacy, blaming his short sightedness, blaming everything he can think of about himself as the reason.

Away down the road rides a flame-haired teen, gripping tight as a passenger to her majesty, riding pillion on a chopper, riding her victory over her anathematic nemesis father, her conquistador-philiac dad, her poor, defeated pa, long gone, she is now, her choice chosen, her voice risen, her being riddled with the pomp of triumph and her soul captured and her body ridden by her lover.

Away on the road flies a chrome-dreamed machine, a mile and a half straight across aerodrome road, no fog, no cars – our absconded teen has a small green bag crammed in a pannier, nickers and a t shirt all she’s grabbed – there are shops everywhere; you can pick up new stuff, if you need, the runaway might be dead in a week but it’s her freedom now, that’s her trade, it’s her choice, in her power.

Away in her mind exams and ratings, pointless distractions, there’s life to be lived, there’s experience to gain, naivety to lose, victim of a dense but forceful Father, victim of a system crushing her into conformation, her refusal to go that way – blue hair and nose rings, tattoos: body art – banned from school, banned from home, banned from a life she never wanted and banned from self, she’s legged it and she’s free to pursue herself into her future, liberation earned through fought disapprovals, interventions and vivid shouting matches with upset parents who couldn’t – in the end wouldn’t – see her point.

Away in the world the massive, faceless horde, fighting and ignored, normal and bored –heck, who can exist with the masses as they mash you  into their ship, their conglomerate of tiny horizons, doom and sadness, their ability to unimagine dreams, their ability to make themselves drones, their only hope, their only slice of the life they all – to a person – want, lived through the icons who represent the dreams the hordes kill, icons who don’t live like them and, ultimately, exist as fleas and leaches on the society the boring and the humdrum create for themselves.

Away in her past is tea and cake, gone are afternoon snacks, brownies from Mum, gone are home cooked mealtimes, attending the table for requiems of the day, of ratings from Pa, of demands to evaluate self against a marker, a reckoner of self worth and gone is watching her father’s mental masturbation as he waxes lyrical about his own day, his values and his opining upon this, that, the other in stunning stupidity, perspectives betraying the density of his brain, his inability to think outside his immediate box, unrealising his own shame, his self-humiliation at the drivel he dribbles in pomp and ceremony, lapping up his own grandiosity through the faces of his poor, imprisoned children, and his secretly smoking wife.

Away with the might, the gloom and shite, her hyper intelligence sees through the chaff, the scum, the shield of smoke and mirrors, she sees only her reality, her own perspective and dispisation of life’s greatest distraction, of that career mill, that workaday reality so used to impress upon the vulnerable young the virtue of doing something stupid for a hundred years, until you die with regrets, like all of the rest, and this is virtuous, this is creed, this is religion of impossible greed.

Away with her life she promises to live now, regret never, by making solid, positive choices and acting upon instinct, not following that path of sensibility and streuth, striving for something you’ve heard of, can’t define and won’t know if you ever get, or not, and will die wondering about and never fully understand, but she has a vision, a reality version quite distinct, and she has wielded her lethal intellect, with this incisive bludgeon, upon her unsuspecting Dad, in precise, surgical blows, long had he known it was coming, denial in his wildest eye, fear in his soft retreat, uncomprehension in his tiny little mind.

Away from living, from actual life, sobs her Father, one of the numbers, one of the statistics that proves he is of himself, a shadow life lived in a pre-ordained haven – a cul de sac, a park, a footpath and the rain – the like of which all folk end up with whilst aspiring, fighting, for more and more and more with each other, keeping folk down, treading on heads to get ahead, knifing backs whilst looking back, smarming upwards, snarling downwards, persistent sinners absolving self with propaganda tirades self-thought, self-taught and ingrained into brains the length and breadth of the country, the self-flagellation of justified numbness.

Away from her universe, worlds collide and her world smashed her father’s aside in her intention, in her need, her desire, her necessity, her tirade of life against a power unseen, non-existent and self-inflicted; her father’ll never taste another life, cannot imagine another way, but she has hers and it’s cost her her family but she is growing into a new one, a safer, more supportive version and yelling hell into rushing air she feels her lover’s tits through motorcycle leather and leaves her prison behind.

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