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Dave Migman leads a nomadic lifestyle, burning leaves trail in his wake. His first novel, The Wolf Stepped Out, is available from Dog
Horn Publishing
Dave Migman
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Wayward On The Rock


Cloud is piling up. Driven from Syros by a stiff wind. They are still praying for rain. Tonight it will rain. Peasants gather darkly on
porches. The night is closer. War. Sitting on this balcony hoping that “thing” doesn’t come back — don’t know what it was but it
was huge, a giant wasp with a black pulsating abdomen and thick spider legs. Its wings were like thin wedges of stained glass.

An old lady down there in the gloom of the garden with a small dog ferrets around in the undergrowth, muttering in Greek. Sky
is pulling in tight, a last morsel of heaven revealed through a closing sphincter and we wait the shit to rain down. Cricket chorus
rising. The ocean beyond the building site. A generator in the fridge of my temporary abode. Dogs barking. A shutter creaking
closed. A glass filling with white wine. Something big and ugly whirring through the vines below. Cars and scooters, hoots of
horns, women shouting out, a key in a door, a rattle of flesh, some pages clattering to the floor. Through the cloud a half moon
like a glowering snake’s pupil, his black body curling round the island. Brother of the Naxos labyrinth hunter. Mobile phones
ringing everywhere; we shout down them like the caller is deaf. They have to rot people’s brains. The same kind of damage to
the cerebrum as modern pop slush. Content with your menial binge? No? Well
la la la some anorexic with a body like a golf
course  (flat, boring, little bumps and full of holes!) Some of you might like that kind of thing. Go jump off a cliff, sing it to the
sky — What do I care? I’m St. Migman!

This town is a classic example of the "modern way." It’s all about veneer. Getting the look right but the fixtures are cheap,
nothing works properly for long and right now
there is a terrible smell!

The serpent’s eye is wide, an open stare of anguish. A silent scream held hostage by dancing lights of TV lies.
That is my favourite dark — where the moon turns the clouds grey, immediately opposite the same cloud is inky — the blackest
point of the sky.

They are peeking through their half closed shutters, what is he doing? I’m Saint Migman scratching his fevered poetry, rants,
raves, a novel, a short story, two Booker prize wannabes and a big fat line of sky dust. That’s what  I’m doing! You just run
along now and cram yourself full of moussaka and olives.

A sudden drop in temperature. The sea is still rushing the land, coughing up plastic bags and other debris — “no thanx,” it says
— take it back you evil race of overgrown monkey scum.

And we will take it back. We will have to. We are stupid. We are dumb.

Listen! I met a guy once who stabbed his father. He was driven insane by the fucker. Insane! He decided he was going to kill the
old man. Overloaded on valium and temazepam this guy turned on his father. They’d been shouting at each other for hours.
Blind with fury, he reached into the kitchen drawer, fumbled amongst the cutlery and moved quickly to stick papa in the back. It
was a spoon! Imagine that! He still got charged though.  

Little palm fingers chattered by wind and cat bells continuous out there. It would be nice to hear the rain tonight. Will it sound
different than a deluge on Leith Walk?

I hear a key in the door, something opening and closing in the hallway. A key in the lock, someone having a pee, wiping,
flushing, taps, lock, return to room. WAIT! Didn’t I hear a whimper too? The fridge kicks in - TV comes on. . . or is it the
orchestra, of hers? . . . At some point in the night will our breathing become harmonious through the walls? Will she enter my
dream?

Last night there was the most indescribably beautiful girl. We were locked in embrace, I remember the smoothness of her cheek.
. . Or I think I do. There is lots going on in these dreams. I kept waking on my hard matress and shifting my cement pillow and
tumbled back into her arms. She was like this song I now listen to. At this particular moment in a small room on an island in
Greece out of your time - gone from mine but the moment, brief as it is, well it is/was perfect.

I hope to see her again. Perhaps she exists out there. Another world, another life, perhaps she is the embodiment of perfection
and I’ve met her before - I chase her through lives and dreams - perhaps she is Ishtar, Morrighan,
the morning star - a rising
flame of indestructible love. Not mortal love. Beyond that timeframe. Beyond that parody of lust. Something hellbent in the
subconcious species memory.

Pages keep slipping out. Chairs are scraping across tiled floors.  

I wish I were ten years younger, goddammit!

Another bottle! And orange balls. The orange balls are nuts encased in orange, the wine is Mantinesca. The wise seem to be
mainly dead, unheeded, unheard of. The wise have been labelled outlandish freaks and ostracised. A hippy, nutter, a lunatic
anarchist whatever. When I was young and I grew my hair, had a deminwaistcoat covered in patches, holed where I tried to
drive studs in with a hammer. I painted some punk thing on the back, DOA, I think — it kept changing. I listened to rabid thrash
metal, punk, hardcore. As Grey once said, “We were the No-generation who wore the colours that bleed.” And look what
happened to us all! Poetic thugs. Drunks. Loners. But at present there’s only me scattered to the wind. What happened to you
guys? Were you so locked down in the age of Kali? Did we lock eyes with that goddess some sultry night in a foreign place of
singing palms? Did we all dream the same girl? Do you believe you’ll find her? Here in this world?  

Well I’ve seen enough ruins the past six years to fill my gut with dry mortar. It aches, this ball. I am constipated with history.
History as taught, as glimpsed in the dry walls of unknown races I saw in Morocco, in exhalted places: Mystras, Athens. In
recent years, I’ve thirsted for life. At odds with all those lonely nights I feel the urge to mix and mingle. To taste your words and
see if she is out there. Sometimes I felt her eyes upon me and I felt strong. She wished me luck from the back of some club,
she cannot come close, destiny decrees otherwise — or  I’m drunk and the pen has run away. Stuffing my face with orange-
coated nuts and soft white wine. This night of my drunk. I see visions through the ruins of Rome. Inspiration — the clarity of a
battlefield thief prising gold teeth and rings off fingers.  

We look back on the ancients as though they possessed some marvellous respect of nature and we gasp as we pass amongst
the ruins of the acropoli at the mounds of pottery — wasn’t it just the same then as now? Weren’t they as vain, as messy, as
uncaring as ourselves? — only now we can add a host of pollutants, chemicals, poisons, radiations, with all the other trash of
crude spawn?

I stood there on the cliffs above Tinos, looking at all the junk puked down into the sea. I think essentially we’re the same. At
fault in the essence of our being.