For the sake of knocking one out, and in the cause of science, I never knew such heart-stopping, jaw-dropping sadness was possible.
Socks in wash. Beans on boil. Liqueur in coffee.
I decide to throw everything away, to shed all my things. It is strangely liberating. For some reason I cannot bring myself to throw away 16 years of accumulated birthday and Christmas cards from my mother. They invariably begin with an apology for having nothing to say, before moving on to the weather, before signing off with love. They always arrive a week early (sometimes two). I smile sadly when they arrive, touched by her persistence, intrigued by how her choice of card has altered over the years.
What will I do once all the sorting and throwing is done? That is another problem for another day.
I greet the spider in my bathroom
I love shirts
Like my mother I have nothing to say
No one reads it anyway
Why would they? They’d be mad to
I bore myself to death
I know the quality has deteriorated markedly
Just want to reach 100
Vodka o’clock feels ages away
Time is fucking torture
How does my neighbour Elvira do it?
I hear her chatting through the walls a lot
On one side of the room
On the other a bar has opened
My bed abuts a bar
Bar is a nice word
Words are tricky though
Best avoid them
Speak musically instead
I check the weather forecast religiously
The Holocene was great while it lasted
But time unmasks us all
For the selfish creatures we are
No shame in it
No beauty in it
No point to it
Socks on rack. Liqueur in coffee in stomach. Smoky sighs in fug.
Anyone want to start a village?