She loves the wine a little too much,

holding glasses half whatever too close to her already short of breath chest,
and in her head she mimes the tambourine as it's the only silent instrument she can play convincingly with real, Keith Richards and his fingers, passion
that can so easily slip into a self-destructive pattern of fingertips and match heads at the foot of fuses leading along to a girl who might never wake up unless she gets three hundred likes an hour on a photo she took two years ago in a place she doesn't remember that well,
and you'll see her in broad eleven light before some lecture or wherever
and it'll look like her eyes have been skipping shots over the backs of weekdays hoping to sleep off her hangover before the week starts back up again,
her lashes matted like a breakfast fruit bowl, more debauchery and sugar on top of those please moments of nowhere despair
and in her head,
overseen by her Bambi heart,
drip, drip, drop
little April showersplays
behind,
all the time,

and the UPS man has just delivered a cat
to the door, a Shadowfax male treading gently around the floor
looking for catnip and romance, and maybe the girl with the wild wine obsession.

It's Tuesday Tomorrow

The Sunday after the night before:
he’s a Coinstar user,
a change from the man who normally has the money to buy his kids the gifts they demand.
It was Valentine’s Day yesterday,
I saw him early on when he was having a short, back, and please hide this mole on my forehead please:
a haircut on Valentine’s Day is the worst day to get a haircut out of all the days to get a haircut ‘cos the room smells of new deodorants and Paco Whoever million cologne,
and the Tresemme gently plodded around the sweep-clean rink,
pushed to the back because the chap next to him asked if he could have Head and Shoulders instead of that other TV crap
and in the mirror sat test drive deodorant boys- it’s Lynx Africa still- planning their road trip evenings, a special Valentine’ Day jaunt up the M1 like everyone else
when in reality it’ll be: house, to pick up, to pub, bar and club, home, her home, door closed in front of him ‘cos she didn’t like his haircut,
and now he’s sat having a haircut he doesn’t want on Valentine’s Day,
getting notes on the linear notes of life by a vocation man who could easily slit he neck twice if he disagreed with his choice of cookery cable channel, disposing with his body almost instantaneously so to get back to the salon for late night opening Tuesday,
and he's sitting in a room of other single parent single lovers trying to mingle in with the rest of the muddle,
and now it's Sunday and he's swapping change for notes in a Sainsbury’s entrance hall off of a ring road
south of his kids who just want their dad home for the day after Valentine’s Day,
and tomorrow is Monday and he’ll be up again
to try and gross enough tips to buy a rose nursery for this time next year
with the rest of the idiots who class 7am as quite late in their day, actually,
leaving on the first train out of there
after spending a miserable 20 minutes with their supposed loved-one in front of ITV +1’s catch up Take Me Out re-run drinking a Fruit Shoot because you’re allergic to red wine,
just about making it to work at 9,






or 20 past 9 because another misfire Challenger had a disaster leading them to explode into 18 individual puddle-pieces of live-outside-broadcast in front of a £48,272 windowscream because their Valentine didn’t get back to them in time with a reply to a text sent 4 years ago.
It’ll be the end of Tuesday soon before he sits back down
and exhales.

Career Choice: denzel washington inception dream fight bath

I’m not scared of growing up
or buying travel insurance,
I’m nervous of the question, what is the next me going to be like, he better still be doing this otherwise you've let yourself down
and if you've let yourself down then
you've probably let yourself go as well,
all those Dominoes winter warmer deals keeping you wrapped up safely and out of the cold,
you've probably let some grimy office bastard grind you down and you're a weaker man now because of him,
you've probably thrown paper cash through a thousand sieve holes one by one because that was somehow easier than saving maybe 30, 35 quid a month?
you've probably gone and got yourself a girlfriend no one likes, so next time: make a fucking better decision you moron,
you've probably gone and started that Indiana Jones marathon you said you were going to watch in a day, so green you think they named the dog Indiana and that Dr. Elsa Schneider actually loved Indy throughout his last crusade,
you've probably started going on morning walks,
you're actively taking part in new slow cooker recipes and
freshly made pesto is now your thing,

because you've probably found the time, made room, rehearsed planning meetings into carefully choreographed dinners and meals by nine,
you've probably given up hope on an ambition yet out of it you got something like a plan, be that whatever it is you want to be your everything and anything, and most things if you work a week worthy of the man that stands in front of his mirror and whispers to himself in the dark every morning, come on, just one more day,
you've probably had the greatest beer shit the next morning and thought, right, this shit has got to stop,
you've probably thought in a moment between sleep and sleep, I’m living in my own conversations about today 25 years early, this is déjà vu:
we're living in our own unexplainable thing that on Wikipedia has a link to the link of link with disorders:
we're living in a disorder, real Cormac McCarthy shit, Aragon but with his dressing gown on instead
or
we're living in the Denzel Washington film of the same name, a film I haven’t seen but as soon as I read 'travels back in time' I thought this isn’t the Denzel Washington film I wanted to watch, I wanted more of a Training Day-esque, Memento sort of Déjà Vu starring Denzel Washington and Paula Patton,
who,
I don’t know.

But it could all change,

it's just how you handle it,

think of it like that

Daddy Issues & Tattoos

She had explosions on her arms,
little ruptures of energy simmering on her skin under freckles and first kiss cheeks.
She had tattoos and Daddy issues but she knew it was all a joke and nothing really mattered,
but it was her tattoos I was interested in
because ink on skin are really metal keys:
twist the needle in doorway pores and see what pours out.

She had an ice skater upon her forearm,
a cherry flip, combination lift,
crossover-crouch,
death drop discipline,
a fan spiral jump running up her arm  poised in the nowhere air of her heart burn body
and I asked her about them;
don’t look at tattoos like they’re sculptures in fields in art gallery grounds with expensive brochures detailing content and form, process and mood,
look at them like keys,
a bunch of them,
the weight of all your doors just on someone else’s skin instead,
ask them where that one is from,
how long did this one take,
who did that one on your thigh,
did it hurt
did you cry
were you on holiday,
where were you when you thought, I need this?

Boy & White Light

he grew into a man and the man wrote a story
and the story began with a boy who walked into the white light of all the wild days he had had once back somewhere over there
and he pushed his lips together and pushed his lips away from his mouth and with all the strength he could muster he said
hello?

and the white light of all the wild days he had had once back somewhere over there spoke back with a voice of breath and said
you're the light that started this whole seeing in the dark thing,
the sting of not going home alone anymore,
I've been tempted by phosphorus dipped others before
but they weren't the spark I wanted to be burnt by
and what's that in your pocket?

the boy pulled out his phone and placed it horizon flat on his palm with the screen pointing up
and the white light of all the wild days he had had once back somewhere over there said press play
and both of them sang,

she's a Dire Straits solo
slung 'round the neck of some
lost, nowhere-bound romeo
who doesn't know how act 5 scene 3 ends.