bichoose (bichoose) wrote,

Sunday 26th August 2007.

" Today is Trinity Sunday "...The rest of the speech is lost in a Winnie the Poo day, somewhere amongst the leaf mold burping worms beneath Hundred Acre Wood.I find Sundays strange,which is perhaps why those few words chink in, each new sunday i breath upon.As if goblins are cleaning out the clocks,no matter where i have been in the world the word Sunday floats in slow motion into the crazy crunch mixture streets inside my head, as if both the goblins and i are treading water.
Today was no different that slow motion feeling began as soon as the sun crept under the blinds in this room,the gentle hum of this machine and i had made a pact not to blurt the stillness of the air,to let time take it's coarse,to watch the second hand tick upwards knowing that Sunday hours were in solitude,the rubber wheels outside the window had not yet grown into a stream rebounding down from a passing champagne super nova.The clockwork sirens from Emergency services transports,had not yet been injected with human flotsam.My fingers naked fail to tune the wireless into babbling brooks full of woe bubbles which float, pop, burst, across the four horses of apocalypse.
Sunday is my day off from the world,a snodgrass in hermit mode blowing away marshmallow morality which has bedecked my ears since last Trinity Sunday.A male slob day,no shave,no searching to see if i have more wrinkles on my cock than the day before,no wondering if i can still bend and touch my toes,no feeling my hair to see how much more has vanished down the plug hole,or why i should pay full price at the barbers,when long gone are the days of short back and sides,the wheel now almost fully turned...i have no need to answer what style,there is only one left to me, this my old fart...i only wonder if i receive a soft chest in my face full of cheap perfume,or some six pack johnny joking with his mates on how many bottles of beer he drank the previous night,the fact he could not see in the dark to rip out the condom,or how far he could throw away the eaten Mcdonald's wrappers after feasting both parts of his body,any thoughts on how big his cock, by this time shriveled into crepuscular doom.
How very different as a youth,when barber shops had only one style, cost half a crown,a half which burnt holes in my mind during the school day thinking gosh sweets and the lie that the barbers was closed was not worth the cuff around the ears,but at least worth thinking about for a few mortal minutes as pineapple chunks at sixpence a quarter was handed out by the vast buxom shop keeper.WAs it the chunks or the heaving breasts which drew such thoughts,such day dreams raced side by side with the Lone-Ranger.Condoms then sat just in front of the mirror beyond the sink out of reach of tiny fingers,innocent minds,which flickered as young hair fell in soft snow flakes roughened by hard hands who thought my head was a turnip ready for the cooking pot.It was not a nice place to spend time,my heart sank each time half a crown was thus placed in my palm " remember get your hair cut after school, don't loose the money or else " many or else's enough to sink the titanic.The small shop always crowded with steel workers, thick oils hung in the air, stale lunch boxes clattered amongst hobnailed boots,through the blue haze of swirling fag smoke flat caps nodded about the greyhound racing,mixed in with other grown up talk,a salad of wants..with mine the fresh air outside the door.
Where was i, yes Trinity Sunday thank goodness barbers did not open then.

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