spartarcad

Primary tabs

I have 89 stories published in 0 collections on the site.
My stories have been read 60560 times and 23 of my stories have been cherry picked.
1 of my 105 comments have been voted Great Feedback with a total of 1 vote

spartarcad's picture
Peter James Jackson

 

My stories

Wild Olive Eyes no More

Weary absent lover returns and recoils His shield hewn with axe and battle toils A cloak an eagle's wing so torn uneven The purest love gloomy distance spoils By sailing mast he held the tempest race
Cherry

The Warm Tea Comedowns

This is known in the western factory idyll world as a ' day off! I wake up, I woke up, I am, he is! The night before I drank and sang and fell unconscious, I lay inert and terrified for moments uncountable, I was adamant that I would die last night, probably in my sleep; you cannot die if you're awake, and that is a certainty. I often think each night will be my last; it gives me a great sense of cheerfulness in the mornings to know another day waits to be swum as an ocean. I have an old steel kettle with an attachable plug lead next to my sheets, I dream of a lone tree and vast white meadows of mist. I also have a small carton of dried milk with sugar and tea bags that I keep stored in my old red 'superman' sandwich box. I smell the sweet tale air of sandwiches lettuce and damp bread, oozing tomatoes and the aroma of a bruised apple, and my youth caresses me in small intimate ways as a dull sleepy coach journey, the hearts of old children are endless; if I of snot nose and short pants way back then, were to know this feeble me of now, I should think shamefully of every young boys future; Adolf Schickelgruber once suckled silently at a pale and plump paternal breast with its stubby brown nipple, I have a picture of an old tank on my wall, I do not know why. I remember paintings I never painted and faces of people whom I have never met. In the morning it occurs to me without the fear of death I think waking up would be intolerable by many; it gives one a sense of achievement unsurpassed by all other modes of triumph. I fill the kettle with water each night before retiring, so in the morning all I need do is flick the sturdy black switch and listen to the water bubble and hiss, whilst it hisses I pretend I am crawling heroically through the dangerous rubble and mud of my fabric trench, here I coagulate words into coherent forms in the narrative of my sleepy mind.
Cherry

When We Dead Deliver

'I doubt yesterday exists' She looked very pale to me, but the doctor said it was perfectly normal. Yet she did look very pale to me. A sickly old gentleman laboured to open a window, suddenly a thrilling breeze wafted through the room; it was scented like damp hey. I remember once masturbating in the warm grass on holiday in Cumbria, Grasmere I remember being naked with my clothes in a pile beside me, an empty water bottle beside me in the endless fields. How the voyeur sky and sun aroused me and I masturbated in the long grass; what flowers spring forth there this day belong to me, I am the father of a field of flowers. The nurse returned with a basin of sloshing warm water and a thin white flannel cloth, the nurse was not pretty, she was stump and fat, like two ill shaped potatoes put atop of each other. She smiled and I felt lonely. She drew back the thick blue plastic privacy curtain and sat beside the emaciated half dead, the archetypal end of a life spent in the mundane, I glanced at the creature in the bed and I hated it, almost as if it were some viscous thing discovered in the damp recesses of a dark garage; I hated the creature and I felt lonely; the nurse gently dabbed the flannel upon the forehead of someone that knows me. The doctor mumbled something I did not catch, he played with his stethoscope with an air of detached interest, he had secretly longed to be an actor. Strict father who had yearned for men as a boy, our fathers make clowns of us, their listless lusts make enemies of our own lusts, and in turn we become listless fathers, hating our sons; yet so it is with the doctor, for his fathers, equally austere strict father made him marry his second cousin, very bland, not at all pretty yet a respectable Christian and now the vernal of that relationship stood beside me, sadly reciting Brecht in his own sullen mind; the doctor suddenly said he was very busy and could not stay any longer, he made his apologies and left, he had a very distinctive walk, it would have been absurd if he were not a man of status, he walked as if racing with an invisible foe that taunted him as it passed, soft shoes speaking upon the clean white floor, he retreated from the ill. He looked extremely distressed to see so many sick people, as if he was perplexed as to the nature of their business with him. I was once an orderly in this hospital, I would wake early, wash from a basin of cold night chilled water, dress eat the warm gruel mother made so sweet, I'd hobble sleepily from quiet streets into entombed corridors, creaky shoes, and a belly full of gruel and a heart full of grime.

Way Gone Down Blues

Alice had a pretty dress, and of emeralds it was not made; Alison had a black cat and of mirrors it was not afraid; Alice dreamt a while away and returned fresh yet unmade; Alice frolicked with Prussian Cavalry officers and died a pregnant old maid. In the long dark of Frederick Wilhelm the Great Elector; slept a cumbersome military leviathan ' the world brought its arm to bare fruit and the soldiers spluttered insults against the air, and the horses neighed into the wind and the generals obese and sublime sat twirling moustaches and sleeping with Hanoverian whores; who wept in dark places for their Catholic disgraces; hiding bundles of drib and drably shod flesh, some illegitimate heir to a Baron or stable boy. I masturbated under the sheets and it felt good. I walked across a farmer's field and it was good; I walked into the night which was precarious, because there were all kinds of lumps, dead saints and divots in the deep uneasy earth. I knew remorse and I felt dire for the small baby shoots that I was trampling, but so manic was I, my weary feet plodded on, crossed two roads in the dark, remembered much too much in the dark, it was daunting, but as long as the town blazed its neon orange far behind, there was nothing. The scariest aspect was the distant bark of dog's, such are Saturday night human things, I kept on envisaging some wild blood eyed mongrel charging at me from some unseen corner of midnight! Yet looking back, looking askance, I know the fear was worth, the beautiful wisdoms of a hermits journey. I stood before a river and thought it beautiful, I sat beside clumps of grass and thought the dark spacious and free; I heard Solomon cry; All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.

I am Dancing this Morning

Masquerading in underpants Beside the dry cold fire place My feet are damp, upon the wood My blood is gravel I am - Incredulity dancing today Singing a riposte to Jonah "I saw the child burn I saw the river dry

Pages