Monday, 16 June 2014

The gulf

Somewhere in the gulf between excitability and accountability, I find a foothold. I climb up. The view from the top is multi-directional and spattered with gobs of grin. Big toothy white lumpfest. I feel good.

The week was one of old friends and new cricks in the neck. The week was wonderful. The week wriggled and wrought the destinies we deserved and, in the shelves high above the city, a mina bird copied the caw of my cry.

Everything is still falling off the walls. I paste photographs of myself to every available surface. I subsist on tinned fish and espresso and kissing the insides of my elbows, the way we’d practice when we were young, before we were quite sure how to get it right.

The insides of my elbows have no tongues and the tinned fish has no backbone but the espresso? The espresso has everything.

Somewhere in the gulf between excitability and accountability, I make the right choice and scramble. We reach a plateau, we reach the source, we get mud between our toes. I survey the lay of the land and press my teeth together. I think of filth. I whisper to my elbow: One day, all of this will be yours.

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