He sits in his room in the basement. He looks at the floor. Laminate. He has just spilt some juice on it. He can’t decide whether cleaning it up is worthwhile or not.
He can’t decide whether to see any of them again.
He splashes his toes in the orange, sticky puddle. He watches the little droplets spray out like a universe around him. Then he farts. And then he laughs as his heart gulps with, he decides, medication. The noise of a teevee programme babbles through the walls. ‘Let fall in love with the flowers; fall in love with the trees. Let’s fall in love with the cherry blossom, the gentle ferry crossing; let us never forget the birds and the bees…’
Realises that his hands are cupped over his ears. His phone beeps. More noise, he thinks to himself.
The rain. Why always the rain. Yo, the rain. The same rain, shame; reign in the mein of rain until the Dame takes the blame for bringing shame upon the little boy who lives down the lane.
Half a carcass of mutton; still, somehow breathing; eyes reddened by the blood pelting from its centre, now it’s end; it’s genitals ripped away by the steel of the murderous truck that carried the young to be fed to bloated fiends with insurance policies against all manner of things. A comfy wedding of meaninglessness and tripe. Settled down, slowly rancidifying in tombs of made of hair and old sugar.
A dry wedding cake sepulchre.
Ga ga. Me-ow.
They held hands as the ship went down and ferryman prayed for a blonde with big tits. His eyes, more, his pupils, they wobbled in their own brine. The ferrymans heart thumped and jumped and thrust up a lump that he washed away with the salty water of the quay. And as his body sank further into the tarry, emerald mud water, all thought of her left him; as did his heat, his memories, the favourite book, the first dog (Bernadette, the sheepdog, who sleep outside his room as a lad), his old war books, the nipple, the red glow and mucous, the droplet of universe, the beginning, the end…
Beep, beep…beep, beep…
‘I’ve got my hat and I’m going to run away’.
As he handed over the money and the machine spat his ticket at him, he felt for the stone inside the jacket. He brought is out to inspect it; its contours, texture and timbre. And, through murk or tears, caught a glimpse of an ancient sea; full of stories, unknown creatures and mysterious liquors. Whores, no doubt; but who knew?
I miss you.
When the wind blows I can hear the voices of the prey birds atop thermals; they peer down with beautiful indifference. The taxidermist will never capture that. A love letter contains no love, a book contains no wisdom, a heart no blood. But in the eyes of the Sparrowhawk, the Kestrel; there is a small truth. I don’t know. I suppose they understand better than I do. All I know is that I spend most of my time close to the mud; the eternal mother in waiting.
He sits in