Trap trounces all sound pounding on ceaselessly people sitting drunken slurping smoke through pureys peacefully on the sullied bed spread the neon glare from the stuttering laptop screen the red of the YouTube logo lighting up the blue of stale plasticine on the desk with the single cigarette rising from it amber in the lime light of the kitchen purple in this one the logo the only thing not switching with the sound never changing the cigarette smoke is rising from the temporary lilac of its filter to the white of the ceiling rearranging itself from a stack to a flat packed mist reddened fumes collapsing into the cracked roof of the loud room in the loud house in the loud home on the quiet street the sleet of another drunken endeavour caking the driveway soles devouring the sludge tucking chunks into tracks printing puke into every nook and cranny every inch drying in like it was always meant to be there and all around the house party something's tearing something's breaking someone's taking something for nothing.
Go down.
See the boys are back in town if they ever left ghosts of Christmas past toasting to an impending success something to celebrate everything’s a clean slate all of a sudden when all’s going well all’s going up speaking to people I saw for seven years conversation wilted and wordless after a few sentences nothing in common numerators and denominators imperfect improper impossible stoned drunk stoppered and poppered and pissed in the soundless hiss of a subsonic bliss in the room of skinny jeans and statues earphones on words thoughts energy gone barely able to heave a breath out a little room across from the exit a little quiet in a house full of shouts and howls and sultry scowls into supposedly sexy selfies to be photoshopped tomorrow drawing attention to that crop top that was borrowed to bring out the best of the breast in you, I go on through cut past the old boy crew to find the new the warmth in the cold the gold in the mine of another suburban home pass around some home grown goods make conversation like normal people would make some jokes finish the smoke part ways for the time being the lack of care the feeling of being unknown gleefully freeing the organic taste waiting in my mouth reaching back to the rear to the throat from that last toke look to my left fling a fag into the sink after I drag the paper back to the full of the filter to the golden ring the eagle in ashes something else smashes somewhere whatever everyone’s too wasted to care the kitchen’s clearing I walk back upstairs.
Go up.
Look down the tiny tufts of leather torn from my tips by broken glass clear and fragmented unlamented lapping lacquer off the floor upstairs feeling spaced still no one speaking staring down the speakers cherry tinted orbs of rubber throbbing expanding contracting pursed between chapped lips painted peach below a roman nose and rosy cheeks and the glassy garlands of eyes straightened hair strained by the static of the balloon as it blooms in waves strands of hair pulsing softly vaguely as it does to her breaths and I think of black forests falling down and getting up again and again reanimating in vain falling back deflated to the white of the snow of the scalp the rubber ragged and sagging I watched it go from new to old and the night just keeps getting colder but only when the wind blows and I’m looking at an old dream and wondering where the times go the times never had the words never said the bed never shared the fears never to be tread upon just the words to be read about the maybes and the could’ves standing in the should’ves yet to become a would’ve still could be something more than a may-have-been standing with the will-have-beens taking in the stuttering synths taking in the scene the sheen of the screen engulfing my eyes reducing them to reflections nothing more just jewel-less visions and below me another bad decision mellows into snogging and quiet patters in the cloak room and but doesn’t matter and another glass clatters and I think about how hard the pieces are to see without the faults without the cracks perfectly pervious entirely empty just to cut just to grind just to break sound continues to shake the room and in the light I see the white of reality and the dark of what was never to be and the gap is so slight it bothers me because with all my might I might never be half the shadow of what I could’ve been so I keep going I keep going.
Go left.
And I’m a deft hand and a dumb tongue in the thwarts of everyone’s land standing on a mound of upturned rug at the tip of the landing handing the ladle on coated in the wash-away stains of a rum and coke too many along with a wealth of pilfered booze brassy drops of a dark beer or a light brandy hit the white of the rug from stainless steel with the grit of something or another on the base giving a twisted taste to everything it touches I pass it on after a swig and watch it go on through hands down the stairs towards the heartland.
Go down.
Reintroduce myself to half a room meet people who by some miracle know about my work before it’s even off the ground two years ahead of time and over a beer I think about the future the crowd sinking and rising to the beat this one girl in a sailor hat lifted from a bedroom upstairs twerking so hard that she’s capsizing down to the tiles white on black I comment on a nice mac I see I don’t remember the name just the coat I look behind me see the butts floating in the kitchen sink look to the dance floor see more people just names just faces just thoughts from different places all here all steering themselves around the banisters and the sofas and the shelves and the seats I offer roles take on a couple of projects but amidst all of this someone interjects definitely different and I hear faintly her last step land on the tiles like snow falling from a leaf and melting into the freshly mown grass all in a microsecond the cold coming freezing and thawing back to water back to the root from the grey of a calm February sky nurturing the gathering fruit set to burst up bulbs of bright skinned flesh through the spring into the summer colourful things spreading out like the smoke from the bow of her mouth her fair hair the colour of the damp sand my feet found themselves on several summers ago the summer I never got to know the summer I spent free to feel ridden in and out by the undertow into the prolific placid of the Pacific horizon I met every morning from a sea view sofa a fawn fairisle throw about my shoulders; I used to get lost in her blue I always found something new there to stare at she was always fair and she was always aware but she didn’t care she was just happy that I was there not to mine not to hunt just to be and she always pushed me to be something more than just another tourist jumping off a ship and swimming back to the shore. She leads me to the dance floor gets me to dance even though I’m not a dancer but I am drunker than I was before I saw her; the room sounds continue to occur in a two two flow the sound waves stirring bodies around; I grab a glass of Buck Fizz and agree to go back home with her.
Go up.
Say my goodbyes to a room full of glassy eyes and smiles have a hand hug hear someone drop another mug I give the collar of my coat a tug and we leave out into the cold that stays the music failing to play by the time we reach the road the playlist apparently shut down we get off the bus and the weather is fair for a February night the cold king no more the floor dry the atmosphere tame and tepid and conversation is refreshingly intrepid passed the All Saints where I have memories so embarrassing I feel slightly faint as we pass by remembering reluctantly the whos and the hows and the whys of what used to be way back when; conversation ascends into K pop and Japan foreign serial killers local sex offenders and the evil of pay day lenders and guilty pleasures no need for fillers no traffic in sight we walk through a set of hard red lights against the patchwork mauves of the night’s star littered canopy, I see a kite, green in the bare black of the barren winter tree like a leaf that’s bloomed too soon rattling above my head against nature but nurtured by the branches cradled perfectly stable we reach the roundabout and go about our ways she right I left but I’ll see her again I hope I’ll see her around again amidst the sounds of another suburban Saturday.
Go right.
I get home smiling under the chrome and emerging cerise of the 4 AM sky. And with a sly sigh the door slithers shut and a gust of wind winds out.
Good night.
