Three Chariots for Pluto
—C’mon will ya, times running out you know
—As it has forever, Darling. Enjoy the frisson of the wait, the knotted ache, the acrid nag of doubt, the bilious suffle, the dank fulfilling disappointment of delay…
Darling squirmed at sea confounded, sulky, frowning, entrapped, stormy eyed. Port worked slow calm numbing Darling into dreams of old ship’s company. The first bottle barely touched the sides then the jabber started and the lights went wonky. Darling crashed. The house had been adapted for this purpose. A cottage hospital bed in stumbling distance, a sink to piss in, an uppy downy lift, handrails of various, drop down cupboards mind your head, various sticks and staves, bags of pills and sooth me ointments, an exercise ball called Ned. And the guards? He wrote, they confided with a smirk when asked. But not his real name, nobody reads it. Why so, you may ask. Because they had not never seen it. Unpublished then? Worse than that: unwritten. Has that helped? Not sure yet. Thirsty now. Quench it.
Sacrificed three spoonfuls of processed bulgar to the grumpy stomach gods before crossing a river of no return. Not in this atomic form. Michael White seems a nice chap. Goodhearted yet didactic. Why the yet? Implied contradiction. More like sloppy language. Some will never know a book. Rubber ham given a wide berth. Left out uncovered overnight splashlength from the tap. Fruit flies are harmless. No says a pear skin. Beethoven chord. Eighth sonate. Know he’s in the room. Intemperate but wait. Yet waits. It it time yet? Not really here at all. Try telling the clock. Just marches off nonchalant. Da da da dum dum. Irregular as. Arhythmic. Clogged.
Gentle snoring. Shower day. One in every two. Don’t wear out the skin. It bleeds. Rots without mind. And with it. What then? A scolding rebuke for afters. Suddenly you remember, there was no seeming trigger, try and garner detail, that’s when it gets dubious, a smell, a touch, something sensate, but it’s gone, so you fill the empty. Just let it be, let it rest a while. But it goes, the butterfly moves on. A glance. That tension in your neck melts. Tantric feels remote. Cheap pink fluffy slippers. Was that deliberate? And if so, so what? Oldest trick in the book. The no trick trick. None of us know what we get involved in. liars disagree. That’s what liars do. For good reason. Power plays. Epic sunsets past two days. Charcoal, golden, slow masses, subsumed by shadow, not in your pomp. Who cares if you don’t? Stumped. Strolling mind found absent. Seiche on water fills the sky. No reflection. Howzat? No need to really ask. Just kept walking. Funny old game bird. Head up arse in clouds. Mackerel springs, amber leaf, install smart meter at your peril. Swings and roundabouts. Sunshine on the copper slide. And the roundabout. Scary monster. Still turning with no one near. For the fallen, propelled centrifugal, thrown off. felt queasy all right. Every time after. Wet wood sombre stench. Cold as a witches. Found no mushrooms. Camouflaged by night. Glow worms ardour dank. Open a tin instead. Careful with the ax now. capillary pumphouse. Needles. Back to skin. Neck of Lamb to tenderise. Food for thought indeedy.