Its eyes are doing the goldfish again, neatly splatting against the front of its glasses just as another memory bursts through. Fast approaching my limits in view of such like, I roll another cigarette. Eyeballs bugged. Spliced.Fish fingers for tea, courtesy of the Captain's table. The disturbed child blinks, shaking its toy like another useless weapon having a tantrum after doing its sums and finding that the answer is infinite and unreachable
it was all about them all the time
it was all about them all the time
it was all about them all the time
it was all about them all the time
it was all about
but what if and ahhh. But
NOTHING.
The senile old lady in our neighbourhood emerges miserably in remote view, her eyes pitying red pools filled full at the sight of the local children, preferably around the age of eleven to fifteen. And dressed in primary colours.
And then I remember an old, odd story told me by a friend about the man who broke into her house when she was eight while staying at her aunt's in Wiltshire. Around three o'clock in the morning, she wakes up after hearing a loud bang. Like the sound. Of a heavy. Object. The sort of sound it would make if it were to dully hit the thick rugs covering the sitting room floor. Something to do with ........... a vague sensation ................. lightly flicking over her pubis ............. as if....................... ( cue the sound of dribbling piss ). The moonlight flits across the spine of the banister as she slips silently down the stair-rodded steps into the hallway. Turning the corner into the room there is revealed a shadowy apparation of a man built like a brick shitter holding what appears to be her well endowed aunt's most highly expansive Panasonic television. A sly yellow slides warmly down her inner leg, pit pattering on the parquet flooring, all reassuring. The man, startled and somewhat sheepish, catches sight of my friend staring at him like something off the cover of a particularly bad horror novel: white nightie attired, hair slightly standing on end (minus yellow trail of piss). He lowers the object of desire onto the floor. Moonwalk reverses back into the kitchen and deftly legs it out of the window he broke in. She had to keep interrupting the story she was laughing so much. This was when people didn't need television or have mirrors where eyes used to be, when it was how things were that mattered not how you 'represented' them. Understanding was easier to create somehow. FCUK how they appear to other people. Perhaps I should also make clear at this point I'm referring to the imagination: you know, that thing that isn't dangling from the end of your nose. I make the fishfingers into a cute little bonfire surrounding the witchy mashed potato so that they can cunningly hide from the peas. Godflish eyes not play. Leave to freeze over until doomsday.
I reach for the next can.
