She's the picture of a dork - someone who recieved the plash from a pitcher full of dork. A picture perfect picture of putrid - smeared green, wave after wave of angry Oestrogen wafting out; like the time at Il Divo - mad women and their husbands. Her tongue is a knotted leather whip, lips cracked, the nanny nurse, the overbearing harridan foe. Sick sick sick! You make me sick. Worse than a hanger on or a drifter, somehow bleakly burning into my attention, wanting communication, a sliver of lava, a smouldering bowl of liquid lead presented in a half skull. Angry woman, I can imagine today as a test, stood overbearing - head tilted, culpable and spotless to everyone else but to me. Inner eye bulging with ferocious judgement.
But to see me this morning, best pals with next doors tom. He was curled up against the fence, the very picture of satiety. In his own way, actually quite Eastern looking, Russian. He didn't run away as I approached, with my cat call (a chirp or two you know). Instead he just waited. Accepting the first touch and the electric thrall of species meeting. Then a flinch, settling into my knowledged hands. Sad to leave him as he smiled and spoke to me. Furry testicles! No wonder the fury of mating is so fierce in felines.
Then prison. One comment making me mad all day; the place I am mentally, even more so.
Friday, 10 October 2008
The cold shake of limbs, the gorgeous suggestion of freedom. A sky at five thirty three, full azure blue setting into a great big salmon pink, the leaves like tasseled coins - some burnished shake on the branches and I am here, regretting the choices I have made, in the sky cabin, curled in upon myself and resolute. Teeth on edge, losing faith, losing time before I give up altogether and declare the whole thing a farce and believe Peter's sad words. Folly.