Are You Having Fun, Yet?

Ryan Havers is a British poet who likes to maintain an air of mystery. He has recently become a

published poet; should you wish to read more of his work he does have a Tumblr account:

http://ryanhavers.tumblr.com

You can find Jo Coleslaw’s work at http://writes-here.tumblr.com/ with more poetry, lyrics and

flash-fiction. She loves rhythm and rhyme, and Northern Soul.

Are You Having Fun, Yet? And I’m bent over the sink howling and there’s not even any fucking moon least not the last time I checked we were walking home and the fairies were switching the lamposts off. Good night, yeah? R (Barabbas) v Jesus Christ 4 BC Page 291 round two, here come the guts here comes the sun, mocking me as it bends through the curtains crack. And how are you today? Some honky-tonk jazz piano scratches my pre-frontal cortex. Please, please I won’t ever be bad again, I lie through my clean teeth, and I never even had to brush, just used a warm carrot-y mush. Stella. Are you having fun, yet? DJ says: wave your hands in the air; fuck, I think I need medical assistance for the indigestion in my empty stomach; cherry-flavoured antacids will do. Maybe. Another tidal wave against the lining of my gut on the ropes… And I’ve got to be up for work in six hours.

Taste My Logic, Bitch. They take bites of each other and they swallow them down and then they carry them ‘round and let them grow into frowns except we don’t, we don’t we let them grow into flowers. They taking root in my soul because what’s yours is now ours and I can learn a thing or two from how you handle the world, from how you take a grain of sand and then you call it a pearl and then you smile at the sky instead of watching the floor because the cracks aren’t there to swallow you; you know that for sure. We take bites of each other and we eat them all up and I’m a lot better off for having you in my blood.

Constellation You are as beautiful as a constellation. Ah, that age-old comparison, As reliable as the bus service In a town with only one bus, And one bus route. Imagine that. The heavenly lights that scatter the sky, Her beauty exists not in one place, but many, Her many talents laden, her keyboard, Her ballerina shoes. And I sometimes wonder If this is love. Then I remember myself. It is only without her, during the sober day, I forget about the cold single bed I sleep in, I forget about how time is a dodgy matchstick That could blaze a trail at any time, but doesn’t, And I forget that she could live without knowing my mind. In fact, I could live without ever knowing hers, If I assume the worst, as I always do; or if I trudge Through wintry summer after wintry summer until The six-foot hole appears beneath, still without ever Having met another, no, not one single person like her. And so, it is during these wintry summers that I am reminded of the only truth I’ve ever known: I miss you, And I know You don’t miss me.

I was watching Birds of a Feather when I realised I needed an Atkins bar. I couldn’t quite get the balance right. I tried laidbacken shrugging like whatever happens I will be fine but frankly I was a little bit lying. Sometimes I want to scream a bit. Life is brilliant, you know it is. I held it back because I was scared to show anything other than yeah mate I’m cool you know. Now I skip when I want to skip. Kiss you; bite you a little bit. This is the way I want to go forward. Over the top is better than boredom. Making mistakes and fall-a-bit-over. I want to laugh and fuck and get bolder. I want to try and then try again till I have exhausted all of my will and then try again and try some damn more - delight in the fight, delight in the falls; all this makes it a beautiful thing to be.

Curriculum Vitae Highly sociable people person with good communication skills works well in a team or on own independently and tenaciously, not a union member, highly skilled in a number of different areas and has numerous skillsets works well in a retail environment and would enjoy working for your company will not complain about the low pay. Highly experienced dutiful hardworking loyal responsible reliable dependable manageable courteous expedient employee with a keen eye four detail. Works well under pressure and to deadlines and when given extra workloads firmly believes the customer is always always right and is happy to work overtime will not complain about the low pay. Highly efficient worker with good time keeping and management skills works well with other colleagues has a likeable persona and is not domineering has exceptional interpersonal skills as well as being able to understand other viewpoints works well in tough situations under stress and has an excellent telephone manner will not complain about the low pay... ...has never complained about the low pay.

298. **Pops champagne cork and drowns.** This is the fire inside. This is the there’s no place to hide. This is the hey, not sure what to say; keep on talking anyway. This is something; in between clean sheets I scream. I heard someone in the kitchen have a nosebleed.

In A Nutshell I was reading this book: It was old, dusty, and the story didn’t have much of a plot. But bear with me, it gets good- because basically, in a nutshell, to summarise, getting to the point, to the nuts and bolts, we take this virgin, to a hill, and burn her. Or, you get your slaves or those funny folk to take the virgin to the hill for you. Or, you can give us some money and we’ll take the virgin to the hill and then you’ll definitely be rewarded. How? I’m not sure. But that’s just a rough summary, wait, I wouldn’t read too much into it, I mean,

in the 16th/17th Century poetic tongue it sounds a lot more appetising… at least, that’s how I tried to explain it, in as many words, at the end of my sermon. You should’ve seen the look I got off the congregation.

Tokyo Bay. It’s a wonderful thing, this perception an’ all but I wonder if sometimes I should have just moseyed on past this field where dandelions die slowly and easily losing your florets; your minds to time - they float on the breeze. I wish I was stupider please.

Beauty She is beauty like I never saw, creviced and cracked, untamed and raw, just awoken, deflowered before; looking at me like she wants more.

(You do realise I get all of it and I'm still on your side though right?) Your skin’s nicer when it’s on my skin and you’re not on your own and it doesn’t just exist. My skin’s nicer when it’s being bit up; being breathed on and breathed in and softly fucked.

Half-pint Bar There I was in this half-pint bar where men sat on stools (stinking of piss and shit) wait for happy hour. Men with faces hardened, and teeth kicked in, by winter; (and by their vicious wives throwing themselves at them. Both bitter since their bridal night, those days of wrangling for the ring long gone…) men look from their gift horse spouses to the 20 something barmaid; Who speaks to me after she pours another: "is your head okay?" and I know she's talking about the pint, but I don't think I'm the one she should be asking.

It’s just that suddenly everyone else seems a little bit shitter than they were a minute ago. Not another flashmob trying to brighten up my day. Out my way mate - "hip hip hooray, mate." Zombies on speed in their free lime green tees advertising coffees from a new franchisee. Vaseline teeth, diabetes eyes; if the sugar didn’t get them high I think they’d die. Skinny teenager’s minimum wages - thinking this’ll lead to the worldwide stages. "Got an audition lined up - O2 - Did a summer outside Pret, what about you?”

Tongue-tied Tongue-tied, lip-locked, throwing myself against you with a demolition ball or two, it’s a stick up but I’m half-cocked; Cave in, I’ve been waiting like Phil, and I want to give your spine a chill; I’m gonna make you gush, one, or two, or three, or four, forget about me, babe, shush- I’ve got the sign that says ‘wet floor’; We can leave half-way through the date, and take a break half-way through to rehydrate, who would bear the whips and scorns of time? And would you bear these whips of mine? Don’t worry, you can just lay on your back, and let me have my midnight snack, there’ll be water, water everywhere, (and maybe you can leave your hair…) And when morning, like you, finally comes… I’ll still be there.

There was this weird sky and I felt sick. My lips are bruised from all this biting my lip to shut myself up and stop saying shit. Suedeheads and Sorts. This smile on my face. Slowly formed from all those fights; fights that I have won. I can only smile. Smile for everything I’ve said; everything we’ve done. And if I die tonight; die with a smile on my face. You’ll know I meant it. Janis Joplin's Shoe Shop. My skin smells clean and warm, from laying wrapped inside your bed, getting tangled in your sheets and thinking is this an appropriate time and place to give head?

…Has Left The Building Aaron hadn't been in the army long the patient rattle of the sub-machine gun like the drum-set in a rock and roll song wasn't much diff'rent to where he'd come from; He'd wrangled an extension and joined in March and had gone from Amps to amphetamines from pelvic gyrations to orderly march; living on in movie screens and daughters dreams... But now they told him to stop, drop and roll instead of shake, rattle: the guns did that, and soon the army jailhouse had full control like his manager had before the draft. And his mama's death shook up his defences; Now he cries out Danny Boy in the trenches.

All the world's a cage. I thought that I could find something that should only be spoken, not sat in one of those big old books that no one ever opens - something that after 8.75 litres of vodka and coke teeters on the tip of your tongue like power or something that’s got to be spoke. But what do I have to do to find what’s left inside that hasn’t died that’s still alive and kicking - an explosion under a desperate sky? Something that isn’t a fashion, a graveyard flash in the pan or a rational thought, pumping thumping blood through hot veins; you can chase it but it won’t be caught. I’m struggling to think - this stinks - I can’t have nothing left to give. I can’t have nothing in my life; if it wasn’t for the **what though?** I think I’d sink. He’s got drinks and he’s got game, that one lives for a Saturday night. He’s got drinks and a fist what hits him, twisted bits of a pissed resistance. He’s got proof that he lives his life - bruised and bloody from his Saturday night. He’s got proof that he got some girl - painful piss up against the wall. He’s got everything I want - cunt. He’s got dirty fists - front of the pub he gets his knee in the face of the guy who lost the hunt. He’s got blood I can see it on the floor, he’s got blood and I know there’s more rushing through him 90mph he’ll calm down when he buys that eighth. Why can’t I have a life like that? Why can’t I get killed or kill? Why am I so pale and wasted, sickly, feeling cold and ill?

I’m going to go get me some bruises - no one calls me a loser. I’m not going to lie down no more; this is me, that is all.

Pancake Day, Mid-December Pancake day, mid-December, some dickhead suggested ring of fire and I was drinking shitty woodpecker they were fucking drinking spirits. They were drinking fucking spirits, some slut said she’d be in bits, on the floor and throwing fits; she was only four-foot-six in height. She was only six-foot-four in height, some knobhead trying his luck, alright? pulled the leggy blonde one night didn’t know that she was taken. Didn’t know that, was she taken? won’t even tell him, well, that’s what we reckon- he left around, say,(she’d even cooked him bacon pancakes) midday. December.

Stained glass cunt. 'My bedroom wall looks like a horse.' ‘Oh yeah, of course it does,’ he drawls and crawls across the ceiling, floor, and window pane; around the walls. So bored he was, with cabin fever pushing us together ever nearer; fucking with our brains (so upside down he looked like he was made of thinly veiled insults aimed at me and each one getting closer to its target - my fat heart.) It seemed a laugh to start with. Then the walls got closer. Ceiling lowered. Floor was battery powered. And I was ‘wait a minute mate; there’s something wrong here in these towers,’ and he just laughed. Unholy cackle. Left me to my lonely battle, watching as we turned to cattle settling in all deathly rattle. Shattered brains all snapped and crackled popping as the night was tackled by the rising sun all yellow trying to fight that dev’lish fellow morning; natural light as warning - stay away from chemical boredom.

Open Your Mind Open your mind. Once you understand that you yes, you, are one of many species that roam and cultivate divide and masturbate this humungous no, incomprehensible planet. Once you understand that you are nothing more than an animal that has spontaneously (and also non-spontaneously) evolved over years too numerous to count. Once you understand that you are nothing more than a grain of sand in the tallest hourglass imaginable, and that your actions, thoughts, feelings, and decisions are ultimately unimportant. You will be free. Free from small-minded religions, free from unsourced news, free from murky politics. Free from yourself. So open it. Go on, open your mind. Escape.

But can you feed a tomato a tomato? This room smells like it’s just been painted, where we first got acquainted, naked.

Wake Up, Bix In tails, with his neck back as sleep comes; drool begins to drivel as the band plays on. Sweat raging against the bank of his collar as a minor key suddenly becomes major. His cuffs sticking close to his skin. Mida's favourite colour bore hits the earth as the first of the drum solos begin; and as his shoulder droops and hangs over the chair, a voice abruptly mumbles: "Bix, c'mon man, for God's sake wake up." Halitosis: a whiskey side-effect, he spent last night at the 27 club, not working, but dancing. Drinking. Listening to someone else play, for once; Even if he knew all the notes. With mutes, he looks at the empty staff and plays, with his very own metronome still banging inside his head. Clenched fists, full of waterfalls of beads on brass, quiver, as the music's too sweet to bear.

Are You Having Fun, Yet? You nearly died because you weighed almost less than your skeleton mate while I was earning minimum wage; putting minimum effort into my days. "It’s just a phase," - great - no one’s taking this serious, mate. No one’s listening to out of date yoghurts or jogging for hours to get to a safe place to shake everything out; get everything out. It’s a chance to get rid from the inside out. Everything’s going, when it’s all fucking gone you can get on with your life like the normal ones. It’s just one of them things - a phase like listening to songs that you’ll cringe at one day. It’s just one of them funny little quirks, this funny little fucker with sick down her shirt. "One of those teenage crazies," *rolls eyes* "Always worrying about their sizes. It’s just puppy fat isn’t it darling?” "Yeah Puppy likes scratching me; he’s snarling. Over and over Fat Puppy bites me. I don’t think that Fat Puppy likes me.” They just watch from the side. Smile. Publicly say “Oh she’s alright.” You eat far too much to die but not enough to stay alive. Over and over “Baby please - you’re being silly and you’re making me look bad, making me feel bad for no reason.” Stands there pretending she’s fucking eating, weeping, saying she understands. Cut my Mother’s hands off. Cut my Mother’s tongue out. Cut my Mother up until she lets me rip my guts out. This is just the start, I swear I can disappear, I will never toe the line until you cannot see me here. You think you’re my friend but you just wonder if I’ve made a will. Trying to take my heart away by saying that I’m ill. Bitch.

You nearly died because you weighed almost less than your skeleton mate while I was earning minimum wage; putting minimum effort into my days.