It's like little flecks of dust that spew from old radio speakers like
propaganda posters on a windy day. Like
the way you persist to stir coffee with your left hand
but sip with the right; the incessant preaching
which arises after the rum
hits your irises -- everything you do always has to be so
O God, I hate it when you're drunk in the afternoon.
When the Sun melts cashew nuts; slapping your salty fist
back, forth; froth of the sea forming on your wet bottom lip.
on syruppy spirits - eyes dilating into piss-hole abyss-holes;
your eyes are so
The radio decided to turn itself on
yesterday - among a smoke-filled black and white bedroom;
it was a pure colourless, like a grotty
vaccuum bag had been--
Emptied; vomit-strewn dust-flecks across our carpet. The tassles
were flaccid; curling up at the sight of light, O God,
I hate it when I'm drunk in the afternoon
and the sun hits my irises and all I can do is piss;
head against the wall, back shaking, piss trickling down my trouser
leg again, again and
I am drawing you a picture on a brick wall
with my piss. It'll remind me of you, when next door's
dog sniffs at it when it needs a break to release its bladder.
O God, we were rabid. But goddamn you were so damaging
and I seemed to thrive on it - slowly, slowly
forming a crust on your lips, like the cashews did.
It's all incomplete and all obsolete
and obtuse and acurate for a split second when the radio
spits and splutters our worst favourite tune.
The dust dictates the mood in the air as the
salt settles on our lips, and we lay our eyes on each others'
chests, again, and flick our salty fists to our lips,