BEARD PUKE
The earth trembles each day with no notice, and here you are stomping your foot and begging me for a difference. Some goddamn difference. I stare across the floor, thinking. It's difficult to spot a happening when one doesn't know what's been altered in the first place.
I'm miserable.
There are these people all lined up at the bar, drinking. They've got scotch tapes on their faces where shapes make out odd yellow flickering frenzy. Ale froth gone tepid stained on smiles. A man wheezes at the lonely joke his brother murdered, falling off his stool. He writhes over to me and jabs about crippled feet and melting designs in architecture he learned about in his school days, then says, "what bout you bub where you learn at?" unaware of how death his breath makes somber.
I reply, "i didn't. it's just tough for us nowadays, anyhow." Nothing resembles belated memories. There was never any school for me, he must have known that. That's what you knew so well. You made sure to make a point of it.
I say, "i need to go," and think back to you and of the time we lay under those red bedsheets, devising secret plans, when to our surprise an army of ants marched right out of your mouth and poured over our vigor. You screamed- presently from this man I excuse myself so as to wash up in the far back bar bathroom, nervous of all things, nervous of ants! You wouldn't stop screaming- I can't catch my bearings in the grimy stall; it's slippery; I can't locate any focus. I flush though there's nothing there and my mirror-double is stymied with guilt and defeat, horror and acne, and I confess that he is like you in that he demands in ribald candor for me to deliver these dreams upon sponges the way I see it. Leave me alone, for once. I can't even live, barely! My only visions are the undersides of faces, chipped in immeasurable granite, swarming with locusts.
I'm miserable.
There are these people all lined up at the bar, drinking. They've got scotch tapes on their faces where shapes make out odd yellow flickering frenzy. Ale froth gone tepid stained on smiles. A man wheezes at the lonely joke his brother murdered, falling off his stool. He writhes over to me and jabs about crippled feet and melting designs in architecture he learned about in his school days, then says, "what bout you bub where you learn at?" unaware of how death his breath makes somber.
I reply, "i didn't. it's just tough for us nowadays, anyhow." Nothing resembles belated memories. There was never any school for me, he must have known that. That's what you knew so well. You made sure to make a point of it.
I say, "i need to go," and think back to you and of the time we lay under those red bedsheets, devising secret plans, when to our surprise an army of ants marched right out of your mouth and poured over our vigor. You screamed- presently from this man I excuse myself so as to wash up in the far back bar bathroom, nervous of all things, nervous of ants! You wouldn't stop screaming- I can't catch my bearings in the grimy stall; it's slippery; I can't locate any focus. I flush though there's nothing there and my mirror-double is stymied with guilt and defeat, horror and acne, and I confess that he is like you in that he demands in ribald candor for me to deliver these dreams upon sponges the way I see it. Leave me alone, for once. I can't even live, barely! My only visions are the undersides of faces, chipped in immeasurable granite, swarming with locusts.