Slipped

Everything would have to come out. Everything does eventually. It all rolls through a hole in a pinball machine. Whether through the pores. Or the tear ducts. Or the mouth. Or out of your arse. There was no need for further explanation.

In the past 24 hours, Francesca met a boy. He looks like a young Alfie Gallagher as in ‘Life! The song, according to Alfie’ – My imaginary poem that hasn’t yet been written. Why do we feel a stinging rejection? Even when we haven’t necessarily been rejected? Flashback. I was tired and had not been intending going out that night. At that moment I did not feel equal to talking shite to a stranger. Let alone try to be charming. My charm had tried up, died up. Well scratch that. Not quite true. It was all being funneled into the dance. Beats. At that moment I couldn’t step out and attempt a verbal entanglement – one with no clear resolution. No guarantee of well-oiled social cohesion. I didn’t want to push myself? Or it just didn’t come naturally to me? Anyway I urged her forwards. I’ll say one thing for me. I’ve never been a cock block. In fact, I would go so far as to say I’ve actively enabled cock action – on the part of others. Not so great at it myself it has to be said. Why is the pen is an automatic writing? Is it meditation in a pen stroke? Is it the cut out method of word choice? Is it, is it, is it, what is it? Birdsong so sweet. Twowhowhip TwipTwipToo Twowoowheeip. It can’t be phonetically spelt. Well Joyce would probably have had a good crack at it. He nailed that miaow. Inspiration is not striking and that’s when you have to keep on writing. Just go at speed and then it will feed your need. To go. Just like now. Just like then. Just like when you said you loved me. Only you never actually said that. And I wouldn’t have expected you to. Nobody would have. Everybody would be extremely shocked to hear that. How do you write? Do you have an idea in your head? And then you try to crystallise it? Something inside trying to get out. Struggling. Punching the air. Going look at me. I can be free. I can go, go, go light as air. Stop talking about the weather. Yes, everyone knows that’s a pack of 52 jokers. And we use it to fill the gaps. Step on a crack break your mother’s back. The good thing was that in the car – on that first journey – you didn’t feel the need to be arsed with small talk. Your son even quipped ‘God, way to stick to the small talk da!’ Then I felt we were connecting. I like your smile. But then when I looked at you in 2D in a photo I wish you didn’t have a fringe like that. You don’t need it to frame your face, it goes down in little spikes. Kind of like icicles. It’s not au courant. But then again, you probably don’t give a shite. It’s become part of you. The way everything does seem to become a part of you. Somehow. Bloody eventually. It’s quite maddening really. Always so close in the corners of my mind’s pockets. But it’s like it’s trapped in the lining. You try to empty it out to find something tangible. Something you can actually hold in your hand and say I have this. I’ve got you. But it’s not that simple when it’s a baby stone trapped in the lining. You might have to take your entire coat off. Dismantle your protective barrier. That could awkwardly disrupt life’s flow. Like if you were at a checkout and all the other customers had to wait while you took your coat off. Tried to find a hole somewhere, root it out with your finger. And then trace it all along the spine of the lining. And it might still be hard to find and hard to grasp. And you might not be at a checkout. You might be doing something so mundane like living your life. Looking after your kids in your slippers. “Me slippers.” They’re slippery your slippers. Did you ever pause to consider that? Hmm? Anyhow where were we? Ah yes the lining. So you might have to take your coat off. And depending on the circumstances of your life, that might mean nothing more than a temporary blast of coldness. Or if it was hectic, like non-stop-hectic like standing in a five deep queue where someone has already been fucking about trying to buy a pack of cigarettes by putting €8 on their card and paying the rest in cash. But there’s a 25 cent surcharge for using their card which they wanted to pay in cash but it got put on the card and now they’re into an unauthorised overdraft on their card and need a refund – then you might not have a moment. And you could go through the rest of your life knowing that precious (Is it precious? I think it’s precious) feeling that stone coin rattling about in the lining. Knowing it’s there. Feeling its potential powers beat like a drum. Itching, itching and rattling through your life. But if you could just take a moment. A single, solitary moment. Before you go any more grey you silver fox! Where you could take the coat off, unfurl it. Then slowly crack through and slant at just the right angle. It would go rolling, rolling and plop. Then hold it gold and glistening in your hand. The heat emanating. It was in you – your gold all along. You were the originator who put it there. Maybe someone else gave it to you. But it was definitely, indirectly or directly, very much because of you that it ended up in your pocket. And indirectly or directly because of you that it slipped through into the bloodstream. A multicoloured dream coat although anyone plebeian enough would probably call it black. Well sir you’re holding it in your hand and feeling its drum beat pulse and echo your heart. It’s stirring. Don’t spend it all at once.

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