Tuesday, September 16, 2008


And the last part, the tragic half or the bitter ice cold masochistic laugh, is me left alone in the house with words for company and a fever the reward.

What a ridiculous sight loss makes, as draped in the clash of tracksuit and pyjamas it sits alone on a porch with a cigarette for company and a tall glass of lemonade in hand. Trying to find the center, trying to understand what it was and what it has become. Desperate now, to get to the source.

There is music skipping down the street from a neighbour's party. A gentle despair vibrates in my hands. The cigarettes do their damage. A mysterious pain reminds me to breathe as I remember the way she walked. Grace Kelly. A feminine promise. An appropriate dress. A pair of shoes. The day beginning in the afternoon. The whole world a fantasy - if you believe.

First, I think, you've got to believe in yourself. Starting here. Alone on the porch.

A laughing couple walk by. I lean further back into the shadows. I watch them pass and I suck the last life out of the cancer I hold in my hand. Then I wipe my nose, my eyes, my chin. And I walk back inside.

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