bichoose (bichoose) wrote,

Friday 5th February 2010.

My 7UP...can is empty,my reading glasses rest on the end of my nose,i am wearing an old purple cardigan which springs one or two holes captured in a time when my aunt used to pull it on thinking nothing of it but an item to keep warm in. My reasons for wearing are a tiny bit complicated the old panto transvestite gathers a crusty storm somewhere amongst the grey cells, which perhaps shrink during my least two favourite months of the year. Just scribbling January February makes me want to runaway screaming into the blue night. Even Gnostic Dwarfs riding bare back whispers, amongst the Four Horses of Apocalypse do not make me tremble as the turning over of the calender to the dreaded of all months.I need a shave, a shower, but i retreat in to the empty can of 7UP the hollow ring the tin sound rakes my soul further in the always tomorrow.
The English Grammar books say tomorrow never comes..but it does falling amongst my grey cells still working, it sits haunting the above two months,until every movement is an effort, only a genius would put Valentines day in February. The snort in crisp air,the pulling up of collars,clasping gloves pulled sharply, scarfs knotted or simply resting on weary shoulders, the deep in take of breath a blue haze drifting out, spiraling up to catch cobwebs on old shop fronts, dim street lights play games on worn leather boots, captured for those few seconds in the yellow beam glancing in reflection on repugnant cast aside litter forlorn amongst cracked pavements.


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