Knocking one out

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

Slippery fuckers

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?

 

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