Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Violent Thoughts In A Small Village

I used to feel so lonely as the lights ran up and down behind the trees,

faraway motor cars on a faraway motorway that made themselves so achingly clear to me,

from over the hill,

as I stood in the cold,

and sometimes the rain,

smoking and taking it all in,

from the front garden.

Lonely, in a valley,

vaulting from town to town in my imagination,

but always being dragged from daydreaming by how distant the din of the outside world really was.

Wrapped in vines and tied to a rural hell,

that seemed to choke me on its clean air and all its airs and graces.

Everyone goes to church at Christmas and Easter.

Everyone wears skirts below the knee.

Everyone knows everyone’s secrets,

and everyone goes out with everyone that has the same postcode,

some kind of incestuous insistence,

that had me hopeful for the hangman’s soft hands around my laboured neck,

so I could drop out of the dismal dating pool and finally be at peace.

I had seen it all,

motor cars and motorways that were far away but held so much promise,

so I set off,

in the cruel and quiet night,

to see if I could bring them a little closer.

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