nothing important at a restaurant and a marching sound that’s a bit like a lot of soldiers and a bit like a wheel rubbing against metal but it might not be a tape it’s hard to tell. And everyone’s run out of jokes because no one’s laughing at anything although they probably would if they had a sense of humour.
Probably nothing important. Just a noise in the dark when you’re half asleep something behind the curtains don’t look it’s nothing don’t look honestly it’s nothing.
Maybe it’s the town you live in making these noises or maybe it’s you. Just a million mobiles and modems squawking and spluttering and hissing like piss on a fire like a million gallons of piss on an inferno just think of that eh?
Just think of that. Vertebrae being sawn apart sounds like this.
*
And when I opened the curtains they were taking the set away and packing up for the day, the cameras and lightsturned off. The darkness, the grey skies, the blind whirring of machinery.
I’d like to write a beautiful story about love:
Snuff
We loved each other so much that sometimes it hurt, even when we were close. I wanted to be her and she wanted to be me. Sex never felt complete, and afterwards we talked carelessly about easy subjects to avoid discussing the ache that bruised us both. So one day, in the kitchen, she cut me and I cut her; gently, slowly, too easily. It was the knife we used for onions and our tears were painful but expectant. We dripped the blood into coffee mugs, then bandaged up and went to bed. We fucked and there were stars but we saw different constellations.
The next day the blood was dry and rusty in the mugs. We scraped it diligently onto sheets of paper. We looked at each other silently and lowered our heads to snort each other’s dust. Afterwards we both carried a pouch of powdered blood, and when we were low and apart we would retire to a rest room and sniff, sniff, sniff.
Oh my darling, we went on and on. Our blood was there always, red and viscous, burnt ochre and blowaway. My blood in your nasal membranes, filtering into your capillaries, finding its inexorable way to your heart. Your blood. My nose. My heart. We belonged to each other and we had made our love tangible, real; something that could be weighed and consumed, taken and enjoyed.
It wasn’t a surprise when we used the scalpel to shaveflesh from each other’s upper arms. We dried the flesh, though it was difficult to desiccate it completely. We used the airing cupboard. The powdered flesh was better; cocaine to blood’s speed.
Did it end badly? Did we go too far? Was our love replaced or deleted by want or need? In losing ourselves in each other did we lose the essence in ourselves that the other loved? Did time simply bore us with its slow wearing down?
I have no answers to any of those questions. But now, sitting here in the kitchen, I admit I am scared of the knife, that I can’t dig deeply enough to draw blood, that I will have nothing in the morning but red, raised scratches on my arm. I don’t want her to cut me.
Did we kill each other, or are we living happily; but only as happily as you are?
About the Author
Stanley Donwood is an artist. He has produced record covers for Radiohead and has exhibited worldwide.
Holloway
, a collaboration with Robert Macfarlane and Dan Richards, was published by Faber in 2013.
By the Same Author
illustrated by the same author
HOLLOWAY
Robert Macfarlane, Dan Richards
& Stanley Donwood
Copyright
First published in the UK in 2014
by Faber & Faber Ltd,
Bloomsbury House,
74–77 Great Russell Street,
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2014
All rights reserved
© Stanley Donwood, 2014
Illustrations by the Author
The right of Stanley Donwood to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred,
Probably nothing important. Just a noise in the dark when you’re half asleep something behind the curtains don’t look it’s nothing don’t look honestly it’s nothing.
Maybe it’s the town you live in making these noises or maybe it’s you. Just a million mobiles and modems squawking and spluttering and hissing like piss on a fire like a million gallons of piss on an inferno just think of that eh?
Just think of that. Vertebrae being sawn apart sounds like this.
*
And when I opened the curtains they were taking the set away and packing up for the day, the cameras and lightsturned off. The darkness, the grey skies, the blind whirring of machinery.
I’d like to write a beautiful story about love:
Snuff
We loved each other so much that sometimes it hurt, even when we were close. I wanted to be her and she wanted to be me. Sex never felt complete, and afterwards we talked carelessly about easy subjects to avoid discussing the ache that bruised us both. So one day, in the kitchen, she cut me and I cut her; gently, slowly, too easily. It was the knife we used for onions and our tears were painful but expectant. We dripped the blood into coffee mugs, then bandaged up and went to bed. We fucked and there were stars but we saw different constellations.
The next day the blood was dry and rusty in the mugs. We scraped it diligently onto sheets of paper. We looked at each other silently and lowered our heads to snort each other’s dust. Afterwards we both carried a pouch of powdered blood, and when we were low and apart we would retire to a rest room and sniff, sniff, sniff.
Oh my darling, we went on and on. Our blood was there always, red and viscous, burnt ochre and blowaway. My blood in your nasal membranes, filtering into your capillaries, finding its inexorable way to your heart. Your blood. My nose. My heart. We belonged to each other and we had made our love tangible, real; something that could be weighed and consumed, taken and enjoyed.
It wasn’t a surprise when we used the scalpel to shaveflesh from each other’s upper arms. We dried the flesh, though it was difficult to desiccate it completely. We used the airing cupboard. The powdered flesh was better; cocaine to blood’s speed.
Did it end badly? Did we go too far? Was our love replaced or deleted by want or need? In losing ourselves in each other did we lose the essence in ourselves that the other loved? Did time simply bore us with its slow wearing down?
I have no answers to any of those questions. But now, sitting here in the kitchen, I admit I am scared of the knife, that I can’t dig deeply enough to draw blood, that I will have nothing in the morning but red, raised scratches on my arm. I don’t want her to cut me.
Did we kill each other, or are we living happily; but only as happily as you are?
About the Author
Stanley Donwood is an artist. He has produced record covers for Radiohead and has exhibited worldwide.
Holloway
, a collaboration with Robert Macfarlane and Dan Richards, was published by Faber in 2013.
By the Same Author
illustrated by the same author
HOLLOWAY
Robert Macfarlane, Dan Richards
& Stanley Donwood
Copyright
First published in the UK in 2014
by Faber & Faber Ltd,
Bloomsbury House,
74–77 Great Russell Street,
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2014
All rights reserved
© Stanley Donwood, 2014
Illustrations by the Author
The right of Stanley Donwood to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred,
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