1 week dry

the party was out near the end of the line.  i paid return fare, but i neednt have bothered for part of me

remained there for good and the rest of me had missed the last train anyway.  the country that lies through

there is still as roadless as in the days of bonnie prince charlie so by the time i got up to the house, the party was

already well entrenched.  in attendance were several cliches of the three tiered classes, and included K and her

ex husband, the cotton-bud heir. she had divorced him the previous summer, calling him a despot and abusive

drunk, but had seemed unable to fully detach. she shouted my name, ' paul ', and we hugged.  in the kitchen, people

were struggling to gain traction on the grandmothers waxed linoleum floor, and were grasping at door handles and

kitchen appliances.  in the end a simple ski-lift contraption was set up from the kitchen to the living room and

involved  pulling hand over hand until atop the safety of the hall shagpile carpet.  elsewhere in the living room, a

cacophony of upper class drug addicts were playing their own childish flooring game, so convinced were they that

the floor was either boiling lava or shark infested waters.  small islands of seat cushions, cake trays and abandoned

items of clothing had sprung up like stepping stones to allow these zombies to spasmodically reach safer waters.

 

by the edge of the room, a half naked female was clinging on to the bookshelf for dear life as if riveted to the side

of a tibetan cliff face, cold and fear-filled on a friday.  i had cornered a dainty girl by a pillar. she

was called linda and i was giving a long broken glasgow sermon straight from my mouth to hers. she wore a

jacket of beautiful shocking blue and for the life of me i cant remember what the sermon was about.  i got her

number, but it had long washed off the back of my hand in the rain before i returned home.

 

the piano player appeared wandered and brought an alzheimers-like quality to the music and therefore the room.

he was our metronome and the room swelled and fell with his fingers.  loudest and proudest were a trio of girls

by the small bar who had believed it to be a fancy dress party.  a teenage werewolf, nasty nurse and female

gladiator all in a dishevelled state clutching at each other and shouting loudest as if to regain speakers

rights to the floor.  the art in the house was lifeless and undescriptive having died 40 or 50 years ago like the

man who painted it.  its freshness gone, it now offered nothing.

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2 Responses to 1 week dry

  1. navelgazer says:

    zoinks, man. is that a dream or fevered real life, gloriously crazily told? I can't even tell. but adore it. fabulous post, my friend.

  2. zoinks woman. thanks.
    you want to believe it's all true, dont you?
    it's the mash-up nightmare that was last weekend. in fact i've cleaned it up, it actually had far more death-rattle and paranoia-spiral, but marks me trying to stop the demon drink. i've had enough. i can takes no mores.

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