Nuvele de Jim Bellamy

foto credit Maria Draghici


      The beast of hell fell shrinking where  The ground descended into gloom. We descended deeper down.

      despondent, earth appeared to mourn The cross-of-god. Who is it may

      heap together shame and spite? We dance around and hurry for The tortures of the film-screen

      and there we visualise sex Smashed. Another country calls

      for guns, bombs, knives, gas. In this dead life we use a mind So squinty-eyed that in the spent

      gardens of the culled, we croon Against the burning of the killed

      night. The gold-leaf of the moon Breaks the hymen of betrothed

      woman. The wearied soul of  humankind contends with

      the foolish creatures of the stained Glass found burnished where

      fists are clenched but closed. This life is an unkind brawl.

      You can see, my son, how ludicrous The briefness of man’s living seems.

      according to his judgment, life Can not stop turning but then stops


      Where foaming springs quicken  Man’s ambition, dismal quiet Must charge the passages of life

      with marshland. I saw people where Teeth were tearing piecemeal.

      my kindly master explained: ‘Here there are ghosts for whom

      the sullen sweetness of the air Made bubbles surge from out

      the gladness of life’s borrowed day.’

      Then at length I came to town. And life’s dry bank was shrouded in The eyes of god. Where dismal smoke

      spoke the words of hell, I

      rose from the surface of the Styx.

      Hell is filled with fetid lords?

      We cannot enter now except with Woe. God says that passions will Glow like eyes. Three hellish furies

      transpose to proclaim womankind. Of bright green hydras, here the rain

      of hell entreats the flinching blast Of storms which ride forevermore

      the madness of death’s horde.

      Understand that learned lairds Must fear the crash of tide on tide. With these two hands, I expurgate

      the turbid waves from out death’s skies.

      sound will spill from out a drum Of oil. The forests of the saved

      must fear the vile collision Of battered trees and dustclouds.

      The roar of sex will scorn lives.

      You whose mind is cleared by The lessons of the dead must Tear from off these mudbanks

      the fearsome crash of the disclaimed Souls of space. Verses god has written

      will make Medusa come. Ah, The Furies bay for blood and The trusting motions of the stained

      skeins of life devour time. The veil of these strange stanzas meld

      with the faces of rhyme. Turgid oceans rave inside The thwarted cities of the spilled

      bloods of the preternatal dead.

      Anxious to yearn after fear, We swallow the knives of the Forgiven. Forgetfulness derides

      the livid dead. Secured, life’s bulb Rots away. The punishments of lithe

      filthy humans stride the streets Of mourning. The anguish and the high Parapets of sex and death

      crowd the graves of anguished tribes.

      God devours the coffers of Stone. With converts on the rise, The lids of Christ were raised.

      heretics lie days deep in sand. The quickened prising of the void

      eliminates the passions of The roaches found enshrouded where

      the soils of darkness spume.

      Hell is filled with living-rooms?!

           A savaged beast fell into the ground. Man descended to the fires which  Made justice from the crashing Thames.

      so we descended to the umpteenth mile.

      torture strode the heavens and Death’s opponent rode the blue horse Of time. People hurry as they glide

      elsewhere. In pain, collisions with the stars Cursed afresh the softness of time.

      we dance around. Here I saw more souls Contaminating swiftness with the killed.

      experience of life did not unveil The god of hell. God answered „Silence is

      proclaimed from heights which cannot Sack the universe’s ills”. I curse afresh the riders of this storm.

      the ugly brawl of romance must Wear away the phantoms of the day.

      ignorance may plague you. Please receive The mask of heaven’s features. Death

      rejoices as he turns. I saw the slopes Of hedonism crush the warrened waves

      of lime. Where foaming waters spray A dismal watercourse, the peoples glide  Against the clouds they’ve shaded. I

      gaze intently at the bared and ruddy Muddiness of faith. Teeth tear away

      the clotted veins of terror. Red eyes Turn toward the shallow muds enclosed

      inside the ashes of the dented void. She who bore us lives forevermore

      and the sight god gave us praises love. New cries of lamentation reach my ear,

      and I lean back to peer intently out.

      A kindly master says: ‘A city draws near Whose name is Death.’ The walls of the bleak Place I was born enshrouds the lithe space

      of life. Drawn from peril, desertified lives Stay at my side. With departures from graves

      engraved in the biers of the coffins held

      up high, the figures of the living spend Seed where blackness creeps about the moon.

      crowds in these graves hold sepulchers grown Hotter than flame. If we continue to walk  Between anguish and peace, the world of pain

      shall deny sound and soundlessness proclaim Followers of every sect. Horrible pain

      entombs birth in the anguish of this mind.

      sepulchers glow with the beat of the sun…

      Leaving behind this world, I see the day Cry for the lamentation of the dead. Crazed with rage, fierce bodies define

      the wails of the killed. Before we’ve made A satisying trip through flame, Lord God

      sights us and turns against the jade Bodies of the knifed. Man peeps into The fitting coasts of the colour blue.

      before we’ve sailed we cross a lake

      of burning. I lean forward to find The world above us. Lamentation scrawls Words upon the graves of the raped

      and the embraced form of the stars

      spears the vice of the unsexed ghouls And ghouls displace life’s sunrise.

      Ferine mangling cuts the nameless thread Of the worn. Eyes seize the coasts of spent

      rain. The terrain of the darkened dead Draws from peril the departures of The ripped apart. If we can desert now

      the deaths of those who are tempered by A foolish death, then the gates of hell

      will open and the swiftness of the sky Desire to speak with the monsters of The night. Displaced, the masters of

      space decline. Love remains here Dazed by God. We hear the wise

      voice of the masters of the sky. If we can venture further then The insolence of lust will spear

      the portals of the entrance to The face. Someone is coming to Open death’s gate or else

      love contrives to lock its door. Vexed, we walk too slowly and Blast the martyrs of the spilt

      blood contained inside the vile

      phials of the roads of hell.

      My own flesh is stilled by The quagmire of the spended Shades of the living killed. Be sure that the mud of sex

      drowns the wicked leanings of The murdered or else exhume

      the spirits of domed heaven.

      I am scared and plainly see How the route of hell is formed And I have been down there.

      everything in creation thrills To the tricks of this conjuror.

      Hell is filled with manitous….

                                                                                      Copyright JDB 2005..

A NATIONAL TRAIN OF LOVE (a very short story by jim Bellamy) 951 words

I sat in a state of privy, with a slag-heap sat beside me. In all the compartments of the train I 

travelled, there were lessons to be gleaned and learned. 

Time was dressed in a bland tweed suit. The apologies of god were leaden with shame. Galbraith

 served my mind and still I danced inside my sullen

body whilst love reared up from the chains of the happy-killed. O, my soul lay dented and 

Everyman reneged on my thoughts and stilled the veins of my


“I saw you use the dance-floor” taunted a woman in a state of obfuscation and the side of Her 

head damaged by way of dreaming. The lavatories of Hell lay 

opened. My dark side appeared to rape my Gem. The scented sentimentalities of the seats which 

rode were forced to swerve. Lust’s hands turned askance. 

“Heavenward for these pages you read” spoke my tutor. The peacock quills of a former state 

denied my dreams as passion raided the sly scenes of my 

languid ear. 

Home and help were ended. The gardens of the thrilled children of life stabbed me in both 

cheeks of my bum and the guards of Christ’s subhuman Turin 

Shroud noosed my cries with Atheistic lies. 

“Jain” said a second teacher. The hands of the clock on the wall caused words to repeat as if 

entertained by self-flagellating cries. The hole in my sex 

descried gloom. It was clear to me that girl kind should desert me. After all, my denial of 

sex-abuse had been all too apparent and I could not find the 

masturbatory words whereby I might at last indulge in a sensuous scream. 

The handle of love turned. 

“I do not consider youth as a bed-wetter and I must presume that when I cross my legs the scars 

of the ocean make a way for plum-duff?!’ 

These words from a third tutor seemed remotely powered. I dared not understand what She eant. 

Now my use of the train was gaining swiftness. Running down its rails, the gurgling noise of 

fellow-passengers caused a hapless sensation of disquiet. 

A cloud of people stood arguing with the north-wind. I was not too maddened to experience pain 

and the length down my leg was never real. 

“My name is Dom Daniel. Can anybody tell me why elderberry wine causes trips?” 

But Dom Daniel was not blessed. Clasped in His hands was a copy of The Times 

Chronicle. It was my opinion (for what it was worth) that time was a funnel with weird noises 

closed around it. 

“Thus is the beginning of the end.” 

But there is no tangible end. Time unravels into itself and causes mirrors to intertwine. What 

should I choose to do but fall head-first into a tunnel of papers 

whilst lessons shoot past me. How should I refine timed life except by living inside my own 

estranged beliefs? 


Strangled rats strode beneath my feet. The face of my tutors seemed planed away by foundations 

but the glibness of cosmetics coughed up

invisible bleeding as my spirit lay half-awake in a medical room which did not inspire any true 

state of sex-yearning. 

“Did you try to speak?” asked a man who had a bizarre birth-mark. His face was perhaps a 

miasma of purple and it was not until I found myself

laying prostrate on an impossible settee when I considered my own face as a blemish. There are 

spectacles on my face and a nose never 

dinted by amateur boxing. I imagine you know the unhappy scene? 

“I snapped at you and that means you must listen!” 

Slang spilled from the walls where the bodies burned and glistened. Often, I had thought of 

burning sculptures and thence the wholeness of statues struck 

me dead. 

Now, every table must seem spread. Cold, snubbed peoples killed for home-time and here lay 

dying all over mean floors. There were no carpets but rugs of 

magical importance strove to stuff our eyes with Aladdin and His insane lamp. 


The train rode faster. A waitress with a scrofulous cold served meringues to sleeping women. 

The briefcases of the working hordes seemed to pleasure the 

passing hour. I could neither weep nor taunt. 

“I saw you using a pen for no abundant cause. Your words are worth two-pence and cannot 

change anything!” trilled a bent prefect who surely believed that 

heaven was still alive. 

The rest of my pages are picked to bits by the howling of strange birds. Glimpses of hedges light 

all lamps and the dishonest peoples cause hateful pain. 

“I who saw you dancing,” Love said but Love was locked the other side of its door and the bit of 

sex-business pissed into the wind as the cloaks of the caned 

scaled the walls of Judea. 

“Did you try to speak” asked a premier of learning but her face was pale and guiltless and her 

sight impossible to bear. She was perhaps ‘pretty’.

The wheels of my train span into the sun. The pleasures of sleeping travel surged beneath its 

counter. I did not think that a choir of songs would awake me 

but it did and as I walked up the slope to an outside street, bottles span from my fingers. There 

was a girl with shells for her hair. In the space of the city, a 

sea of whales span round. 

I have never considered true life since spent candles burn more brightly. There are tocsins heard 

in towns which mean all and nothing and the oceans of this 

earth collide beneath fled flames. 

I gave my home three knocks. “Mr Anodyne,” God said, and softly strode away. 


                             ‘BEFORE TRUE REST HAS COME’ a very short story by jim bellamy ( 1632 words)

            THAT EARLY evening, in September 1985, only one person was mad

            enough to light the lamps, and she was the cruellest. She behaved as

            a bore and did not like prosody. Call her Jasmine. She wore a

            strange suit that seemed washed by the tides. By her side there was

            a book and a phantom man and child. The moon was not yet out. I

            travelled home with a bag by my side. I bore an album too. I did not

            care for dancing.

            Inside my home was a pair of tights that was torn down the legs. I

            padded barefoot to the parlour downstairs. Downstairs smelt weird.

            Pungent scents wafted from the cigars dad had smoked before today. I

            peeped noisily at the corners of my kitchen. It seemed as though the

            curtains there were forever drawn. My eyes were still heavy from a

            future dream. A dream of untouchable woman and I was falling,

            always. I heard my sister weeping. Beneath my larder, I sensed

            vegetables turn to utmost rot. Upstairs from myself, there was a

            family viewing the news. I closed the back doors: now there was

            nobody to disturb me.

            But all the noises of the otherwise dead, darkened by mourning,

            intimated breathing on the mirrors in the hall. And the gaslight,

            gone, served as intimate relation to a past I had known long before

            this life had formed.

            First there was a long strip of photos of my great grandmother. A

            professional dickybird with hood once snapped his way as he strode

            the vanished main streets, calling “Good morning” across the lanes

            where once shop-windows shone inside candle-light. And here I was,

            yet asleep, walking down the precincts. Here were the

            mendicant-blind and the cured killed. All I could do was to bleed

            into my own heart the peculiar fact that my life as an infant was

            now ended. But melancholy could not damn me. I was assured by sound

            of my own personal fate. And school is often spelt wrongly.

            Bells rang in my ears. Bells rang at the heels of my school-mates.

            It was as if an earth of fear had been deposed to reveal a station

            with a train whose destination would appear neither hidden or

            absolved. I knew then that learning was to be my only future.

            And here I was, running down the dead-ends of my childhood, stout,

            confident, in command. But I appeared to peek into the windows of

            forgotten stores. Buried in errands, stepping aside from the common

            kind , prying strange looks at the broken looking-glasses of

            furniture shops, my soul was photographed.

            “Your image has been taken”. Immortality achieved in the space of

            one moment sent me skipping along the roads forever. And learning

            was to my immortality. With hairpins, buttons, screws, shampoo

            packets, knitting-needles. At nearly six-in-the-morning, I was

            hurried to awake for real.

            The clock struck six. Daddy put his hand out and turned it askance.

            Then the whole of my life was dreaming but thence self-lead.

            The dog growled like a demon, and showed me his largest teeth. “Stay

            still, Stinker. Get back to sleep, boy.” I was yet too tired to

            speak with a slap. My eyes pulsed with a forgotten tiredness which

            was soon to permit for seven whole years of learned life.

            Most of the sheets on this table were dirty. A lump of coal from an

            open fire should somehow remark on the vandalism apparent thereupon.

            Foisted on the careful graffiti were drawings of legs and breasts

            which smudged out rude names and formless numbers. History is lies.

            Now take the Jutes. Read ahead, read about King Charles. Move ahead,

            read about Prince Alfred. Discover who killed the headmaster’s

            daughter. Read about old Bennett and see him whipped down the

            corridors. See Liz stuffed with dates or dip a starched collar in

            the smirking inks as hammers smash teeth into a prim, bald, smirking

            head. Spiral away from Saint Nicholas and speak of his presence till

            gifts are stopped. Ride the piggyback of a drunken scream. Catch

            penny stains sketched as if silk garters. These tables are as true

            as History.

            Upon the last sheet I signed my name several times with a pen which

            had no lead. I did not opt to scribble with the real. At a first

            glance there was no sign of interference. Thence I drew my eye to

            the coke inside its synthetic grate. Dust drifted up into a cloud,

            and then I settled down into my first true day. If only I could yell

            at the ceilings and trace dark circles made by former gas or crack

            into lines the figures and faces which danced and chased animals

            over hidden fields: Come, let’s look at Saint Joan who has somehow

            destroyed her parents’ house in Stephen’s Street, or else Staines

            Grove; he will never be allowed to come back. Mrs. Baker, have a

            peek now, perhaps, from under these cold sheets, at Mr. Baxter, who

            worked in the Post Office Tower.

            “Be quiet”, I said to myself, “Surely I know nothing.”

            Dad opened the gates of the pantry door. The worn best plates shone

            like fire. A pattern, akin to a willow tree, span round the cups and

            filled with flowers the fruits of the coiling texts. Jugs were piled

            up on one large shelf, on another the bowls, the soup-tureens, the

            toast-racks spelling Brighton, Hastings, Porthcawl. Then for the

            trifle-dishes. Thence the fitful afternoons when tea-service was

            brittle as biscuits but proud with gold-leaf. I cracked two saucers

            together, and the curved spout of a teapot came off in my own two

            hands. Inside five minutes I had perhaps smashed the whole set. May

            all the vices of Leicester Square bow down to see me as I whisper in

            this scullery: the spidery young girls who help at home. Calculating

            down this pavement where the rich-smelling shops,

            screwed up in their sensuousness, dry hair in the rooms to the side

            of this home. I blood off salt with the plant that’s grown. And I

            should have hopes that the office girls may knock at my door with

            the very stubs of their fingers. You can hear sex now gliding from

            the glass porch of this sealed room. “Oh yeah” I must have said, and

            the just male voices agreeing softly. “Shoo to them who snore in and

            out of Staines Grove”. I know that they are sleeping under vexed

            sheets up to the fringes of their grey whiskers. Meryl is marrying

            the Chamber and Mary is wedding to Lady Settee. I am breaking

            tureens in this bad cupboard beneath the stairs.

            A metal plate dropped from out my hands and smashed to smithereens.

            I awaited the sound of my mother awaking. No one stirred outside.

            “Stinker is perfect,” I said aloud, yet the harsh noise of an inner

            mental voice drove pets in my world back to silence. My fingers

            became cold and numb for I knew I could not lift another plate

            without breaking it.

            “What are you doing?” dad said to me at last, in a cool, flat tone.

            “Leave the Streets alone. Let them sleep”.

            Then I closed the pantry door.

            “What are you doing, raving away?”

            Even so the dog had not been awakened.

            “Raving away,” I said.

            God would have me hurt quickly now. The incident in the cupboards

            had made much of a trembling so much that I could hardly tear up the

            mess I had made inside the sideboards and the china that was

            scattered under the stairs was too difficult to destroy. The doilies

            and the patterned tea-cosies were still together, hard as rubber. I

            pulled them up as one, as if in a hope of wedging them up the


            “These are such small things,” I said. “I should break the windows

            and stuff the cushions with this broken glass.” Dad saw his round

            soft face in the mirrors under the duplicate Mona Lisa. “But you

            won’t”, I said,, “Be afraid of the noise I have made.”

            Dad burnt away the edge of his mother’s guilt and shame and

            remembered to poke out his tongue to sap the tracks of my tears.

            “Still playing to cry,” he said. “Tears have salt and life is all

            salt. Just like the best of my poems.”

            Dad returned upstairs to the dark, with the light flailing, and

            seemed to lock the doors on the inside. He put out his hands and

            touched the walls by my bed. Good morning and farewell, Mrs. Barker.

            My window, facing his bedroom, was wide-open to the winds, but I

            could not hear the breathing of my mother. Most of the houses were

            still quiet. The main part of the street was a closed grave. The

            neighbours were still safe and deep in their separated silences. My

            head no longer touched its pillow and I knew that I should not sleep

            again. Dad’s eyes stayed closed.

            Come down now into my arms, for I shan’t sleep. I know your rooms

            like the  backs of my hands and I do not wish to sleep again. Tomorrow, today,

            I am going away by the 7.50 train, with five old pounds and an old

            suitcase. Lay your dreams against this

            bed for the alarm at six-thirty will hurry you back to the once

            drawn blinds where lit fires burn before true rest has come. Come

            with me quickly to where we may hear breathe the floats of the

            milk-men as they are waking.

            Dad was asleep with his hat on still, and his hands were clenched.

            My family awoke before cock-crow. At least, I thought I heard them.

            They would stand in their dressing-gowns, stale-eyed and with ragged

            hair. O, come with me quickly…

……………………………..jdb 2005..


USE OF THE PANE (a very short story by JD Bellamy)  1141 words

It was way into Christmas. The dyes of the outside trees had stained the texts of school with a cry of scalded birch. The yellowed fists of winter were delving sense because the lustful  eyes of one thousand boys were here encased in a room of thirty young people.

There was, on #a shelf, the manual of my mind. I could hardly think because the sensual words of feline girls were shrieking from the sun

Languid verbs foamed from the desks of vexed kids who appeared to know just how the humane human body worked and the routed shell of beaches out of bounds spoke to the seams of coal-country. Where softness dug, the miners of minors turned around and

before rude sin had towelled sweat from the birth of ships gone out to sea, the privateers of life descried their decks.. Veiled with nails, crucified senses were burned to death.

The forests  of knowledge dammed the brows of teachers and their misbegotten words.

Eyes swallowed from tendril-trees apportioned sightlessness because their buds of vision were wet with seed. The quietus of death’s storm awoke the dead with a myopic whistle which framed the lids of time.

I could not fathom when the rhythms of speech might darken the staffrooms. Where the

battered books of one billion books reproached exams, the lines written by children in detention deadened a need for ills.

‘I have words at the ends of my fingers,’ said a male pupil whose use of poems was perfect. Verse emerged from riled heaven as the names of God teemed with one zillion chic rhymes.

There was a ‘reason’ for glad talk but this reason had invaded life and had made creation void. When I say ‘void’, I refer to the indolence of word-thieves. School is full of thefts and because of this all essays are rebuked by a method of marking which imposes a ‘metaphorical’ use of the cane and inside my head, beds were soaked with fear. Sweat oozed  from the skins of youths who could not fathom a need for truth but the distant cries of  abandoned cats  freed folks from the cob-webs of the vain and sheer.

Infamy must serve as an instance of tuition where the startled screams of woman get lost in a forest. Rape streams from out the conifers of the love-maimed and the dirty clothes of inchoate sex must die or else become a spurious porn magazine….

I looked at the tired and saw therein a horde of waiters. Inside this mind’s eye, there were courtiers who downed G-&-T from disembodied sources. As drunk as tailors, the

unravelling spool of space milked ambrosia from the clouds.

‘I am not daunted by lies and if you cannot read, please say!’ preached a part-time

Prefect. But her Incubus of sensual frowns burst the curls of love’s faith because the darkness of the Void allowed fools to dispute all romantic lunar-landings.

‘I am assured that Aladdin made touch-down!’

Smog cloaked the eyes of Christ in a veil of black-and-blue while the surface of the moon burnt  one’s soul with drills, deepening into the very soul of this earth. Can one be sure that UFOs do not emerge from this world’s infernal crust?

‘I had babes when too young and was then relieved!’

Speech such as these was ten-a-penny and moved the uniformed throes of immaculate humankind. The blasting noise of several million farts silenced the gene-pools of Nazism and Hitler lay drowned in a pond of skin-veined metal.

“Oh, but how terrible’, A dauphin child spoke from out  a board-rubber.

“It’s very kind of you to say life is comfortable, but look at the confusion. Just to think of living here. There’s something around which cannot make me happy.’

But happiness swelled  from the ground as school-yards shortened the scent of earth’s cruel smile.

As the night rose above the rooms of this school, the trades of perverts spat forth. The stars of Time noosed the Deities of light and dark and the cornucopia of sense loosed aliens against the coitus of the laid as ships, wedged in bottles, drove the dawn ‘west of Suez.’

Lives dwelt in their own framed ball-park. Students crossed the lines and died before born. The canes of the killed  thrilled as they crushed chiliads of moaning and weeping.

The clime of  stiffened throes entertained the tiles of  fear. Crying thrilled the chapel of flowers, smashed inside red rain.

 ‘I cannot breathe because I am too young,’ spoke lads where future suffrage blocked the outside loos.

And ripped to bits were the buttocks where the fields of  soul soaped to slits the sexist

Harness of killed cries..

‘Can you suck the teats of life or else constrain the etchings of mankind!’

And  the skies of mad and disclaimed boys danced  inside pictorial heavens as the

Doctored scars of mankind felt bared breasts.

In this glib space, the tits of suitors swelled with the sperm of the tamed and thrilled.

Hung up by the penis till  pens died, the strangled cocks of wisdom spared

spoiled genes and the swiftness of red seed dazzled fusion with the pared

deeps of  sun-lit drains. Here, the homes of murders roamed and the surfs of the tangled tamed ran with silk as sinks thrilled with the spilt skins of the penitential dawn.

‘I do not wear a bra.’ Thus were the words spoken by a highwayman of a female Fm-Tutor.

‘I cannot cane you but I change you!’ Thus were the words spoken by the cold lips of an aged Head-of-Year.

And the dire fates of the learned delved the sums of time as triangular pentacles appeared written on gleaming desks.

The plugs were trapped and water ran away with the blisters of the inchoately praised. The dugs of pets back home shed milk and the dining-halls of frailty served strange foods to forgotten souls. I was made sanguine by the main-meals I ate, all of which contained French stews stirred into smashed potatoes.

The scars of the stars roamed the fields of the damned and I was spent because my train of thought appeared to drift away. And where the mourning morning awoke  stoned, there was a quay of calm situated somewhere out my front window. I could neither weep nor sleep whilst the coda of songs extended their tunes to the beat of alarms.

‘Oh, can you please leave welts where there was none!’

And words such as these swiped dregs from the bottoms of queer beer-glasses as the teetotal throb of this enervated life got spanked by the missions of a ‘tutored’ mind.

‘Several puffs from my pipe please!’ spoke a School-Premier and I was scarred forever…