The Coldest Stare

In a state of disrepair, I solemnly downed my 400mg Ibuprofen, 500mg Co-Codamol. No alcohol. Fully functioning human being amongst the idiotic masses. The supporting act was dire. I concede that I was feeling extremely unwell, the fervent bass rattling my empty stomach, causing waves of grim pain to pass through me. Struggling to heed reality, my accompanying party soon gave up trying to converse with me or associate with me. When the main act came on I was engulfed by fools and soon separated from my associates, standing alone. Amongst the writhing and undulating sea of foul cretins. Isolated. A youngster carrying a lager, clearly intoxicated, being more partial to a sip of WKD to while away the weekend bumped into me repeatedly whilst attempting to close in nearer to the stage. "Sorry mate," he slurred, leaning in closer to make himself heard "sorry, mate." Two vapid harlots began gyrating in front of me, firm buttocks, exquisite legs encapsulated within muted black tights. In my fragmented mind, I was livid at this blatant disregard of all that is deferential. Saxophone; bass; cowbell; theramin. An unmitigated urge to fuck.

It's the Polis

Hide the body.

Successful Fella

I took some painkillers; 
had a kip; 
went to the pub; 
kicked a homeless man's head in with my steel-toe-capped boots until he was no longer breathing and coated in his blood lying in a miasma of piss and shit.


I then went to the shops and bought a can of Irn-Bru.

Hollow

Fucking.

Succinct Critique of the Overarching Themes of the Literary Works of Frank Black

"[Frank Black] hates life and everyone in it."

Helix Aspersa

Frank stands in front of a mirror.

FRANK: I'm Francis Bacon. I am spontaneous, strong, visceral. I am Francis Fucking Bacon. I am not a useless husk. I am not Frank. I am a layered masterpiece of repressed angst. I am flesh and blood,  sinew and soul. I am not a worthless, waste of valuable resources. I am not a rabbit. I am a handsome, sphere of compressed rage. My liver is withered. My lungs are withered. My heart is withered. My intestines are gargantuan and run amok with moments past. I am livid. I am an abattoir frothing and bubbling. I am post-modern. I am the rotund harbinger of slow, mental decline. I am the gentle beast; I am David Murray's Let the Music Take you. 

[Pause]

I am Helix aspersa.

Marmite

Frank went into the kitchen.
Frank placed two slices of whole grain bread into the toaster.
Frank put a thin layer of butter on the toast.
Frank slathered Marmite on the toast.
Frank wasn't hungry, but he ate the toast anyway.


Frank is empty inside.

Weeping on Toast

It wakes me,
Superimposed thoughts,
Scattered.

3 Pieces by Sam Birrell

Sam Birrell is an author for our generation; a visionary; a human.
You can find his work here: Body in the Bathtub

Play

Curtains open, centre stage stands a man, he is wearing skinny jeans, a messenger bag and has funky hair, he walks to centre front. Looks out to the auditorium.

Man: (with passion) IL N'Y A AUCUN AVENIR POUR NOUS

Man walks back to centre stage. He takes a beer from his messenger back. He sits down, he retrieves a bottle opener from his pocket. He removes the bottle cap and proceeds to drink.

Curtains close.

Poem

The streets of Chicago are lonely

at night when the homeless are gone

and not screaming a sound for

us to hear their madness

they just want to be

loved like we are

but they are

not loved

no.

Prose

Looking out of his balcony, a ledge really, onto rue de l'abbaye. A string of Vespa scooters took up half the small street. He tossed his cigarette out, landing next to a tourist. The tourist looks up, he smiles, winks, and puts his thumb up and shouts “YEAH!”. He walks back into the apartment and she asks why he did that stupid American colloquialism. He shrugs and sits down on the sofa and puts his feet on the coffee table, knocking over a bottle of wine that spreads over the newspaper and Kafka short that neither he nor she remembers buying. She rushes to clean it up, he changes channel. He flicks through several channels, nothing. He gets up and heads to the kitchen area. He takes a beer from the fridge and heads back to the sofa. He puts his feet back on the coffee table she just cleaned. She exits the apartment. She does not take her phone.

Turmoil

I feel 

nervous at the prospect

of having people hear;

my words;

deliberating over their meaning.

I feel 

angry 

that my work achieves nothing;

that my work is futile;

that I am stuck in a forlorn cycle of mediocrity.

Verbal

Speech should be punishable by death,

Everybody should blog instead,

And that way nobody would care. 

Britpop

Two young men sit on a concrete step. 

GEOFF: I should get my haircut.

FRANK: Yeah.

GEOFF: Do you think I should get a haircut?

FRANK: Yes.

GEOFF: I just don't know.

[Pause]

I don't know if I should try and get that young Alex James thing going on.

FRANK: I like Blur.

GEOFF: Yeah, I fucking love Blur.

FRANK: I don't like Alex James.

GEOFF: Fuck you.

FRANK: He's smug.

GEOFF: He makes cheese. I want to make cheese.

[Pause]

He's living the dream. 

FRANK: In my dreams I am a real human being and I am finally capable of love. I finally can have a deep relationship with someone that has emotions involved. Generally there will be a lot of emotions. I feel like a robot. Maybe I am a robot. I want to know what it's like to feel things. I want to be able to look a lass in the eye and feel more than just aroused.

[Pause]

I feel dead inside.