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Turn It Up.

Monday, November 30, 2015

Tell Me That You'll Wait For Me

Bourn Vita, Choco Pie, cold coffee, and noodles. Shots fired, because nothing else would do. Bring my books to the balcony: the wind here is nice. Free the cords from the week-old tangle -- it's high time we cleaned this place up a little. The white board is skewed, the nails will need fixing. Father Of The Nation smiles weirdly while elves emulate his fashion sense. An elf sat with me at breakfast today morning. He was a late pagan monstrosity, but I liked him. Rings of fire surround the wooden wheels and the butterflies shed crocodile tears and a dull pain rises from the wicker chairs and toilet seats. Entire families of cats and dogs prowl the lower eyelids of giants. Clocks. Socks. Wallets. Phones. Keys, pins, holes, cracks, nets, bogs, bugs. Locked doors, knocked doors, burnt windows. Lights, cameras, fractions. Hills climbed, races run, sails set. I will miss you. I will miss you. I will miss you.


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