My often time van boot hit head rests on orange tasseled cushions as my body lies upon a soft sofa. Chakra-lassos are thrown and pull me into your blue-hot fire, my spirit on the tight-rope feels the heat - don't fall.
On the street mossy green river pebble eyes turn into cactus spikes, stop staring, I reply. Did I paint his eyes with animosity or did he do that himself?
Speaking of paint, I hadn't realised how many tins of irateness I had in relation to my mum and all those who voted for Brexit until I began applying for my pink-slip, I've been applying many coats to them ever since.
In this instance, a pink-slip is not a pink coloured undergarment made of cotton, it is a temporary residents permit which requires, among other things, ten thousand euros to be transferred into a Cyprus bank account.
I escape my sorrow in the mountains. I go to stoke the fire and burn my finger on the metal handle of the wood-burner. The warmth spreads quickly across the room as erotic dream embers awaken, but what is doing the stoking: love? you? I? my body? your body? It gets so hot almost all the layers come off, at least enough to make your heart almost naked.
Is that all I want, the baring of your most intimate parts? So I can what? kiss them? But lips are physical and cannot touch what is not. What can touch that place then?
Not myself in these moments that I feel inseparable from you - because only what is separate can touch.
Back in town and slate is being sawed in the hallway because mould is spreading. The lean and tanned plumber strains and growls as he passes through the now chill air. Meanwhile an invisible stand-off of wills are meeting at the front door because the landlord now wants to gut the bedroom too. A step too far.
It reminds me of the will that wants to gut my personality for my own benefit - but we have to, your thoughts are mouldy and are warping the walls of your perception, it suggests. We need to get you back to the structural elements of who you are because the construction is shoddy and outdated.
