Sunflower Skins

July 27, 2010

Experiment 14: Mister Drunken Ramblings Again

Filed under: experiments, prose — Tags: , — Sunflower Skins @ 12:01 am

Fuck you, I’ll piss wherever I want, Mister Lawn. You could stand a little watering anyway.  Nobody kissing in the shadows, at least. ’Member that time ’bout couple weeks ago, got my pecker out ’n then there’s these two kids, high school maybe, staring at me like I’m the perv. She’d even missed a button on her blouse in all her scuffle-cuffuffle. Nope, nobody here. Ahh. Time to move on. I don’t mind these walks so much anymore, these late-night walks. It’s quiet and peaceful, and if I’m quiet too, no one’ll bother me. I can stumble down these streets like a ghost. Like the ghost who’s with me. At first I couldn’t even go on these walks, though I wanted to so bad. Wanted Miriam with me, like always. I just stayed at home without any thought of the future—of how I would continue my daily life, pay bills, buy groceries—basically function. And I heard her everywhere, god I heard her all the fucking time. She begged me to join her, to follow her outside—into the wild depths of our old dreams and memories, into the bliss of regressing. I could no longer do it alone; not without her, not without some kinda help. Outside, I began walking our familiar ways, winding among the streets, searching for her—hidden in any tree or bush, under any car or porch. The retail district was no better, for she appeared as every mannequin and postergirl. Downtown led me to the best place Miriam’s ghost could offer: a place to sit—and laugh—and enjoy memories rather than cry over them—to drink with others than to drink alone. I haven’t got close connections with hardly any of them, but they let me in on their games—me, the wise old timer, the one who can’t take a shower without a railing to grasp onto but who can still flip a switchblade dead centre with a pint of rum under his belt. Goddammit, don’t you think I know it, I’m pathetic? There’s the part that stumbles home, that drags the bad leg and sees all the ghosts—that tries to dance—stumbles—and there’s the part that staggers home ’shamed, also seeing all the ghosts—trying to ignore them, trying to drown them. But where can I go if I must leave my empty, lonely home? Amongst these grim and gloomy streets, where once we walked—happy? Happiness. O yes, I remember that. But fuck it tonight. I’ve swallowed more liquid happiness than emotion can sustain—and so I am numb. I stagger homeward—without you, my love. Tomorrow night I’ll walk the walk again, hoping to find you and the old way. That I miss so very much. Fuck, it’s cold out here.


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