I am in a new room, battling an alien set of keys.
Older keyrings have been lost and the old room has been painted over. I heard them ask for a certain shade of cream.
The bathroom is dismantled and disembowelled and now sits waiting for new occupants- rangeen pot et al. My angry disenchanted words fade and will be broken up, not washed out. The careful rubbing out of words too will be forgotten maybe to be remembered in a pneumatic bus ride but that will be somewhere else, at another time.
The cigarette burn on the inside of my arm? Scars are poor reminders.
The music here is as borrowed and garbled as it was. The churn in the stomach too is familiar. But the floor here is orange and now I have forgotten what it means to be churning out my entrails, black letter spiralling out in quick release.
The thought of a new life is exciting, as nerve-wracking as negotiating a whirring machine. I attempt the studied nonchalance of an old timer. Fail miserably and angry toads honk at my incompetance.
sy lies, the escape.
Too much watching-over, those pinpricks of pupils floating in brown. Nothing escapes them. But fear slips out as they watch a wooden ship leaving.
A wooden ship means silver people but I do not see them.
I dream instead of angry men
attacking.
And a submissive, pliant ghost of myself
Or just myself.
