SIX DAY TEMPTATIONS.

Where do I begin?

The blue ocean moves all around me, pregnant with puny, translucent shells, pulling at my ankle as it sucks the sand from under me. The underplayed urgency is alluring-enticing-as the yellow sun pisses on my neck leaving a brown aftermath. Singing in the sunshine, laughing in the rain… Oo Yeah!

The terrace is low and white with cheap plaster. The sky is clear blue turning grey turning orange. The voices are close, pulling at my hair, my five sizes too big t-shirt and howling in joy.
-You’ll fall; you’ll faaall.
Oh, you wish.

I look down at the bar. The abstract symbols signifying the motorcycle and the hundred grams were still recognizable in the wobbling pool of cerveza. Those representing hard work and discipline however have defeated the surface tension that held them together and merged to become another soggy spillage on the bar top. I shrugged and smeared my future across the uneven surface. I was always like this on Friday afternoons.

Or, at the very end probably?

The balloon man stands alone on the station under a tree. The tiny balloons are full of puss and blood and wobble as he walks. All evenly brown under the urinating summer sun. His hands are extended asking for sympathy, the one white peace of cloth around his loins hiding little of his ostracized balloon body.

On the upper berth of the choo-choo train, watching the green leaves and the blue water from under glasses, I feel protected, saved for another day, thrown out of turmoil into stifling peace with a practiced and well-worn hand of solitude.

I am the boy,
That can enjoy,
Invisibility.

Many thanks to Chris Haslam of the ‘Twelve Step Fandango’ and the momentarily under-appreciated ‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce.