Worcester

The staff of the Indian restaurant were crowning in their contempt. We’d been bowling, straight from work, beers by the lane. Two strikes in a row was a peak at about 7 pints, but then straight down the gutter. A foreshadowing drunk. The others from work went off to eat, but lost, we instead called at the Swan, for 2 nicks of vodka and orange. We arrived late to the restaurant.

Quartered by choice

I choose the first bottle with a degree of care. The cat will be watching as I drink it, and besides, there’s always a chance that I’ll taste this one.

Pinot rouge, which is a joke to myself, because its black and red, a wine in a sweater which later will be a truth as I drink.

A good first start. The second choice is more difficult. Something fruity, but without the heaviness of a bottle of domestos. I don’t want to clean my teeth until later.

The normals, looking around the shop for something to drink as opposed to numb the dull sensation of their pointless and inevitable decline, choose a four pack.

Ideas are infectious as I grab three more of the same, rabid as my mouth salts inside with the thought of inevitable repetition, killing ninety nine percent of known thoughts, dead.

Friday now

I walked past someone today
They looked like you, and so I smiled
But it was someone else, and
no-one, and so they walked away

After that I stopped smiling for today
and went back into the house

Through the window the world is
just an occasion to be witnessed,
a distraction or
an infinite jest

A place outside, viewed, where
we’ll always remain friends.

Always and never

I say hello to Autumn

its overcast skies meeting my own dark eyes
as we together question the season

“What if?” I say

and the weather points with leaf-littered precision

crisp answers
to questions unfinished.

 

Under the influence

Sun broke through the window, a morning thug to awake the kids. Their faces stayed asleep until after cornflakes and TV, and then, outside.

To write. About? Maybe the sound of the track from that one album, the one they played, him and his brother, over and over except for that one track, the one that made him worry that she would be as dead as …

Words never to be said. HIde that sensitivity and pretend its all a different sort of discord, a fear of more acceptable irrationality, rather than a seven year old’s trespass into existential decline.

Twenty five or thirty five years later, what’s changed? Trapped behind “what if”, “when” and the possibility of what might be. From the corner of the eye he sees hope, but she’s too crafty and slips away, once again.