Thursday, 9 December 2010

Burn Out

Lunch 1984: The burn out hill. a small hill. the small tribe. He's a "burnt out" you know...a burner...bad boy. He's always on the burn out hill. // Yeah? He's Class President too. And he's got a gold car.--Gold?-- I think it's gold ..or rust.// Praally rust. Look at him.

No time really. Laundry. A run in the park. Rick Freedlund. Cool guy.
Time ticking away. Tony gives me a letter from his GP to give the solicitor. Still back pain. Run in the park delay. More OH Jay. The sun still shining. Trees pining. Clipped fame. Mirror refrain. Tracey eMIN'S BED HAD NOTHING ON THIS APARTMENT. But hard to shift the whole box. What kind of saw do you need to cut a council flat out of a block and paste it into a gallery? Prolly words. Words have a special meaning sometimes. The to do list is so fucking long. I'm tripping over the entrails. Dead bride. Before it was even written, it was rubbed out. Shorter list. Defeat is better than this. Our shopping lists. I'd rather move quietly around the supermarket, super war, supper floor, kernels of unpopped corn.
It was so much better as a fantasy. The sealed walls of a headless torso anonymously rising to occasional clips to escape reality for a while. Take your eyes off something but it doesn't disappear. Very close to asking about her fiancee. Holds up a mirror to her dreams and reads the backwards writing. Unofficially unintentionally folds out like a map begin by very carefully undoing your drive, very bumpy ride, side by side humble bee pawning off her pride.
I ran into oat girl. I call her that as I don't know her name. She has red hair and had a two year affliction with her massage therapist called Eucalyptus. Her midlife crisis consisted of tattooing a love hut on her wrist. Something about a jewelry course. And taxi woman giving tax advice.

No comments: