Futures keep happening within the grand scream of things. A scram to stream the never-ending steam of boiled cabbage left to fester. There on the table top. There and off the edge it drops.
In the end of year is the end of days. The weekend is here and it’s only midweek. Tomorrow, a new year. Not literally. In fragments. Pieces of the day come and gone with “Closed” opening up across the cityscape and window fronts looking back to make sure the doors are locked.
Scraps of food settle in for a night of soaking as the clutter of the midday dinner wraps it up in boxes and boxes of paper destined for reuse only to wait it out for recycling pick-up. MacGyver at least would shred out the metallic essence of the wrapping to steal a spark from the wall socket to start a fire to cinder all the torn papers. Bang bang and down the doors fall as the fire brigade comes to rescue you from a food coma worth its salt.
A foetid end to another year. A horrible morass where waking up is sarcasm on a brutalist’s landscape. Stark is that haze of wondering what decade pedants want to count down from. Zero it is and zero is nature’s way of asking for all its programming to reset in blazes of houses and melting bitumen.
Through the ashes we walk like the Pied-Noir on their way back to where they call home. Distraught. Distant. Destined to find a corner of the alcove where the singing birds are making music and not actually wheezing from gasping scant interludes of a waning weakness.
Tomorrow calls for sweaty socks.
Written on Thursday, 26 December 2019
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