Monday, 1 February 2016


A distant laugher curdled my spine, waking me from my slumber. I had also pissed the bed, the laugher increased. A single Blackbird appeared on my window – a gestures of alleged void – it shat and left. Contemplating suicide, out of boredom. Glaring out the window at the cancerous sky, he drags himself out of bed to make breakfast he grabs two white stale slices of spore riddled bread and begins picking of the green fungus before sticking it in under the grill, he removes the burnt toast – spreading thick wads - rancid butter. Sitting in his chair he scoffs down the toast it's texture that of shards of glass. He boils the wheezing kettle – pours himself some lagoon black coffee, returns to his chair and drinks, burning tongue - he's still alive. Which was nice. He enjoys the bitter burning taste. The spacious room contained bare damp walls, bare damp floorboards, a toilet place beside the window, as well as a small oven and grill. here he lives...again and again.

No comments:

Post a Comment