Time Zip

Time zipped closed upon me. The past two years shrank to a murmur. Memories of arrival flashed back. The view over the sea. The bottle of Grouse on the window ledge; the light turning it a deep, humming gold. And the potent amber liquid, like a weight, pulling my frantic soul into the depths of happy oblivion. The screen flickers with old, beautiful faces.
Sitting upon the new carpet, the smell of fresh emulsion paint mixing with the fumes of booze.
Tears rolled down my face. As they cooled, a sense of euphoria overcame me. Peering up at the world from the bottom of my well, colours deepened, cut through with blades of gold.
I rolled around on the carpet, marking my scent like a stray dog.
In a star shape, a tumbler of whiskey on one hand, I conducted the music of the spheres with one listless, joyous finger.
My phantom tail patted the fresh carpet in time with my sluggish heartbeat.


Grasping Flame, as Ever

The blushed sky crept up without warning this morning. The river ran like it would never end. Like, in the blackness of space, it would still babble on, carrying its underwater carnival off to a cosmic vanishing point, where, who knows, all the reeds, swans and fish might be reborn as fireworks, astral music, birds of prey, songs of the spheres.
The dust sat snugly in the slithers of air in between the well-thumbed pages of a book once treasured, now forgotten.
Wind whistles through the open windows, smashing one shut, yanking one open. Rain hammers down. The music of phantom Taiko drummers surges through the walls of the room, reigniting the beat in the old, grey heart of the masonry. A jam session takes place between the invisible percussionists and the air pressure above this feral offspring of an island.
Half a cashew nut shell. Inside, the wing of an insect. Outside, light floods everything.
Imagine holding such a light. Every molecule in your soul, pulverized instantly. And the dog, the poor sod, would cover eyes with paws at the silent explosion, the pearl blue flash.
Soon, though, its stomach would squeal in harmony with its whining and it would clamber out of the rubble and look for food.  The only remaining evidence of life will be a burning photograph of a young man wearing a graduation costume. The frame is in flames and the day, now six hours and forty-nine minutes long, bides its time. Waits for the sound of traffic to die away. For the gentle trickling sound of the river to return before taking flight to the regions of space where old radio signals lay in heaps. Where rivers curl around bonfires.