| A handful of sprats |
[Jun. 3rd, 2010|08:05 pm] |
Wake up - can't remember what I was thinking about - was it something about trains? (timetables - destiny/missed connections/stranded - so stranded is your destiny, which means that you are not stranded) the desire to remember and understand tugs at me sheathed like the feel of easily-to-hand fabric on mastubatory dick. I can't sleep.
Out the house - into the shed - out the shed - on the velosiped - out the gate - on to the road - slight incline - slight headwind
freedom - no hurry
would like to go faster, but it's become hot (the smell of recently-strimmed weed sap drying in the sun), over the South bridge - bare guts and dirty oil, deserted expansively-windowed complexes - the gaps and reflections in overly-developed banal conversation (hers and mine).
Overgrown shaded path (she leans closer) sand and weed and barefeet and muscled torso over striped-tracksuit bottoms - alcohol-tanned arms flicking through abandoned plastic sun-cracked bags (she tells me to get a move on).
Then past maskachka (where she considers walking hand in hand), into the old city,
where she loses interest in me. No time for would-be poets
you see. No breeze and space anymore - she saunters off
informed by genitalia.
etcetera etcetera |
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