30 October 2015

Blistered

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It’s another hot day in the reign of the sky god; so hot the sky has blistered. I’m parched and could use a drink. I drink to remember – or is that forget? Pour me a cold one and let me recollect. I’ve seen things would make your eyes peel. I’m not talking ordinary misdemeanours – I’m talking extraordinary rites of passage rarely witnessed by tourists or innocent bystanders. This here’s the epicentre of my own implosion it’s the crux, the nexus, the big bad bang. There’s more dirt inside than out; we have a vacuum cleaner, but it sucks.

There are few merciful impulses in the caustic brain stems of mother and daughter cabals who press the flesh for loose change and a pocket full of drunken promises. They are the authors of their own wretched and obscene melodramas. Like those simulated suicide compacts that go sour and leave stranded  conspirators woeful and alone on death’s lonely shore.

I tangled with their kind once before, but bailed out before things got too heated. Theirs was a three horse race and I had already taken too many second prizes in the two horse variety. My face is cracked with wounded veneer. You can peek inside and see the twisted sucker who once lived back there in blissful ignorance of the ties that bind a man to life and death.

I traced the ideography of the walking wounded with my bleeding fingers and came to one inescapable conclusion – we are none of us alone. Little presents from on high grace our tables with the experience of laughter and of tears. Whatever fractured world our idiot compass leads us through knits us all together in tidy bundles; leaving the anecdotal evidence of the lives led and love stolen in any given song of endurance.

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