A day of shaky hands
A day of shaky hands, of a dry spit mouth. To share an affinity with the Hermit life style, sheltering from the beautiful non-descript afternoon, I’ll remain in my cave of white walls and wooden floors, hung, suspended waiting for the break of a sun-setting dawn. The calm after the storm has finally arrived. The quiet and solitude that has been longed for is temporarily placated. A brief moment in a deaf world of soft yellow lighting and some flaking squiggles on the wall. Where dwells a constant will to remain alive and in the party, lives an impulse, to flee, from myself and here. That feeling was not to be submitted too: that is not the will of a Saturday night.
Sipping sake through painted giant card faces. The reactionary text, a reason to shut the door and cross the road.
One walk, half a duck, two cups of tea and a found chair later I arrive back to be given hugs, screams. And kisses once I feel like shit. Again. I take another drink more.
My friends are laughing, I think someone is definitely crying. That one’s just fallen over and now the explanation will go on for five minutes. It’s ok, I do it to her too, but not tonight, not today. I have somewhere to play.
I find a space and squeeze through, learning my French as I go, to the wall where I sit and stare through a window at the place I just left. I miss my friend I left for you all. I don’t have a place anymore. It moved and didn’t leave me an address.
Walking through the door I call out for a pigeon and find a reflection I don’t want to see. A confused memory an image of something I don’t remember and ignore.
Two drinks, Four kisses, One cleared room and now, a leaking pipe, an alarm and water in my eye. Running and shouting and alarms repeating, it’s action, it’s a purpose and I like this sense it makes my numb head feel.
Wiggling, walking a lovely sunrise, to a place that is my own superior cave. Family awaits and an excuse begins. Another itinerary read, another life described. I look through her eyes and forget my own name. My smoke is more interesting, my smoke is my friend, my smoke gets into everything and goes everywhere to alienate and protect. To induce my long awaited sleep.
For an hour.
Then awoken for breakfast in a coma. Ginger and mushrooms and silently defending myself to those bearded eyes who thinks they’re better than Monica. Excuses made and back to bed, to plan the next time I’ll eat and see you.
Bribing you to the oven for the last time, we sit in silence, with hairy dogs in glasses, a 2D church and holding hands. Not really thinking and waiting. Waiting to wake up and meet my shaky hand, dry mouth and a desire to be alone. Encased in a clouded cave of; white walls, wooden floors, soft yellow lighting and some flaking squiggles on the wall.
