(no subject)

[jholloway.livejournal.com]

Morning light stabs the eyes. Mouth tastes like an ashtray, vomit burns the back of the throat. Fuck me. Get the shiver under control long enough, turn and check: slim, dark hair. A little warmth of affection comes a split second ahead of the name, and that warmth is enough to get out of bed and try to start the day. Must be about 10ish. Push the button for morning music.

I was born my Papa's son,
a wandering eye and a smoking gun.
Now some of you would live through me,
then lock me up and throw away the key.

No hot water again; shit. Scrub and scrub. Perfect teeth never wear or yellow, but it does the mouth a world of good. Water beads on satiny finish, pools in the cracks of the scars over the stamp.

Or just find a place to hide away
and hope that I'll just go away. Ha!
Well, I feel all right.
I feel all right tonight.

Shave in the harsh light. An odd sensation: imaginary hairs falling from an imaginary man, while glossy skin stays just the same. Light's almost too bright to think. Razor trembles, clicks down on the counter. Can't wait any longer.

I'll bring you precious contraband
and ancient tales from distant lands

Little vodka bottle in the medicine cabinet, and shame at how eagerly the cap comes off and the first drink of the day burns and cleanses. Drinks, spits, drinks. Oh God. A little better now.

Of conquerors and concubines
and conjurors from darker times.

Cut deals, dressing. Customary suits of solemn black. Same old: I won't get high until at least noon. Only one drink to get through the evening, maybe two. It's going to be a long day. It's always a long day.

Of betrayal and conspiracy
Sacrilege and heresy.

Sit at the mismatched chairs around the battered table, looking at the little flat. Empty bottles, little twists of tinfoil. No junk-food wrappers, thank heaven for small mercies. Cooking is too much joy.

I got everything you'll ever need
your darkest fear, your fondest dream.
I ask you questions, tell you lies
Criticize and sympathize.

Scroll on the table, inkstone, brush. No scholar stone -- can't have it here, but just thinking of it helps, nestled in the strange vines, perfect in its wholeness and emptiness. Think about it, don't-think, and smile.

But be careful what you wish for, friend,
cause I've been to hell but now I'm back again.

She stirs, rolls over, one long strong arm swirling the dust in the sunlit air.

And I feel all right.
Yeah, I feel all right tonight.

She wakes, eyes sleepy then clear. Smile wide.

"Darling."

Comments

[lslaw.livejournal.com]

Cooking is too much joy.

Good pace, strong imagery, but this is my favourite; that little reversal of expectations.