Reflective Tabard
The red lipstick ran out before I could finish
writing. I had to get the cleaner from the kitchen. I got
distracted and ate a yoghurt, and dropped the spoon. It stuck to my
stocking. Pretty annoyed. It left a stain so I dabbed it off.
The other cloths were in the wash, so I washed
that one, then wiped the mirror and started again in burgundy. This
time I wrote it out neater.
I wondered if it would be sexier if it wasn't so
neat, but there wasn't time to change anything. I waited.
Closer to six, I had a glass of wine. It got
cold, so I put on a dressing gown. I stayed very quiet. It felt like
a vigil, so that the air could collect all of me, and this silent
lust, and waft it like pheromones over everything. I was pretty
excited.
He came in later, still wearing his reflective
tabard. He was in a really jolly mood; he'd been to the pub, and was
now havering. He bumbled off to “do manly things”.
I felt like he'd ruined the surprise, destroyed the atmosphere. I finished
the glass. There was no atmosphere. Just me standing here, wearing
a dressing gown and drinking by myself. Would he? Probably. So I
went to find him.
He was already asleep, with game controller in hand. Still wearing luminescent safety gear. I
watched his reflection as he snored. I looked fat, and the mirror
wrote over my fat belly, in burgundy:
I want you in my cunt xxx
God on Canongate
Shy is really loud. Kept reading aloud on the
train. No intonation, just volume and rhythm. The performance had a
one-to-one correspondence with the meaning and context of his lyrics.
He ignores Clipes. I don't think he sees him, or
anything that isn't pure TRUTH JUSTICE PUNK.
He can hear it in your blood-works, just like
Moses heard GOD.
All day he sprawled among frayed receipts and old
letters, all covered in squint words and terrible rhymes. He gave
the impression of a poet composing in a blossomed orchard.
Clipes had nagged that we'd be late, but Shy times
everything on his watch. He knows how long it takes to get anywhere,
and if he doesn't know, it's probably written down on the back of one
of those bus tickets.
So he suddenly got up, at exactly the correct
time, and then we were out and to the station. Soon we were shitting
it south amongst old drunks and silent, bored students.
At Waverley, Shy became quiet. Suddenly bashful
amongst so many commuters. We thanked the conductor for some reason.
Shy remarked on how PUNK it was to respect REAL PEOPLE, as long as
we bear in mind that his employers are CUNTS.
Canongate, £3 and then we were in. A poor sludge
band were opening. Shy grabbed me and pulled me through the din, and
random skins, to a table. I saw what he'd spotted through the
gloom.
I was with GOD. His beard was long. His morals were
pure. He wasn't playing tonight but I was sure he was RIGHT and the
WAY and even CLIPES was happy.
