THEN I SAID

This is as close as I get, no kidding. Any closer it sort of slips out of hand, to one side or the other, mostly the other. Depending, usually, it’s like that, days like seasick swallows.

So the truth, what really happens is something I can’t see. What? The truth? This is as close as I’m allowed, I think. I don’t really know. This comparison, if that’s what it is. Afraid of most things. Stupid, isn’t it? And made up from what? And even smaller parts unknown, flutter out of reach, under the bed, under my fumbling hand.

I Sleep with books. Pathetic. About fifteen in my bed right now. Way too many. They curl up and find some warmth under an arm or a leg. Bastards. They fall to the floor and wake me up. Insufferable things. I grab one and read it till I fall asleep again, and wake up, in the middle of the day, with books around me, on top of me. Nonsense. Very depressing.

From that point it’s impossible to tell. From any point really. Looking at the stained ceiling. Nothing there, except stains. Damn stains, how did they get there?

This starts in a weird place. I’m leaning out a window. It’s a small tight window, and I’m smoking a cigarette, looking at a window-door-wholesaler-place across the road, and I’m drunk. Beer and vodka mostly. I’m quite happy just watching those big slow snowflakes fall and melt and the sound of the drain filling up. I suck the cigarette too hard. It starts to look like a lipstick. So I chuck it half-smoked, feeling bad for smoking here, out of this window, in my mother’s house. I close it, the window, and open the fridge, her fridge, and get another beer, and stagger back to the couch and start watching something stupid on TV.