Back to the drunk, and the dance

291

The man who drank to forget

Wakes up. He shakes as he moves from

Bed to bathroom, his world is shattered

This is the ice-cold start to living alone

292

He has reached out his hand

To the other side of the bed, pressed

His palm on flat blankets, across the

Slight hollow in the mattress

293

In loss, an imprint exists, it is

No less transient than the life

Of the memory that holds it

Nor any less unique or precious

294

The whole solar system has a shelf life

Making perspective simple from intellectual

Angles. Life is more than cerebral for people

Stars have life cycles not funeral rites

295

Ketchup has been left with the lid off

Sticky and vulnerable like a tracheotomy

It’s mostly sachets in cafes these days

Split open heart-pods lying on side plates

296

She wakes naked with achy feet, parched

Skin, echoing head, seeks comfort in

Pulsation of water, the congruous

Drum of indoor plumbing

297

Oh the beautiful drops tap their cadence

On weary skin, thumpy bones, tight

Connective tissue, everything

Eases in lemony froth

298

Encased in the chrysalis of

Shower stream, head-thumping

Pupae gets a feeling for flight

And a fancy for a bacon sandwich

299

Wet flesh, refreshed, falls back

To bed, starfishes limbs under the

Duvet, dreams of wings and heaven

And the kinetic fusion of dancing

300

When she wakes again, it

Will be lunchtime and her hair

Will, caught in the mirror

Cause such laughing

Comments

Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...

Hometime Foam Time

It was hot outside, cold indoors. When we were freed from the hall I opened my car thinking oven gloves might be required for driving. I was weary. I was lined up for a row of shifts- but the evenings are lighter now, and the beach was calling. I drove a wiggly route to Veryan (the road I chose was closed) and down to Carne Beach. Since I had checked the weather the wind had turned easterly, and the tide was in. There were waves smacking over a disappearing line of fine sand. Undeterred I wriggled my swimsuit on and went to play in the foam. Neither air nor sea was particularly cold. Blue and cloud patterned sky, blue and turquoise patterned sea, flowers blooming and swooshed by the wind, and the warm brown crags of rock: to be here was to be directly connected to the source of all existence. Home time was foam time, and vice versa. Afterwards I sat in my car, door open, eating a square of dark chocolate, watching the white flecks and trying to work out if the dark dot was a...

Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Search This Blog