It’s early sunday evening. The sky is blue. It’s warm. A plane flies high above me, unaware of my watchful eye as it passes from one side of the window to the other before disappearing from view. I’m laying on my stomach, on a blanket on the floor. I like being on the floor, makes me feel humble. When the weather turns though, and all the spiders come in, I’ll have to take to chairs and beds again. I fear the summer months for this. You’d have thought I would be used to it by now, but unfortunately not. I’ve been lazy today. Went for a walk earlier, had a soak in the bath reading some Bukowski after. Other than that, I haven’t done anything of merit. Oh, I wrote a poem. Looking out the window after I woke up, my eyes fell upon the paving slab that rests where Monty is buried in the garden. Thinking of him reminded me of my childhood, so I put some words down that seemed suitable. I think he would have appreciated it, in his own way at least.
When Brittany lived in Derby, I loved going for a piss in her bathroom. It was on the top floor of the house she was staying in, and as she lived on a hill, the views of the town below were idyllic. But it was the fact that the window was directly above the toilet that was the icing on the cake. You would stand there, dick in hand, gazing at the landscape in the warm summer months feeling like a king. In the evenings when beer had been consumed, I would relish every opportunity to visit the bathroom. The sky growing dark, rapidly becoming black, I would gaze open mouthed in wonder at all the shimmering lights. There were churches and office blocks, untold trees and a water tower too if I remember correctly. Those hazy memories make me smile. The feeling of my muscles relaxing coupled with the beautiful views stretching for miles made me happy to be alive. It’s the simple things, always the simple things.
I can hear birds singing. The sun sinking out of view, there’s a slight chill creeping around my bones. I’ll have a beer soon, and toast the dusk. Maybe a cigarette. Cigarettes bring introspection. They make me think more. Mournful, melancholic, and bittersweet. Sundays are like that, they give you a chance to reflect. It’s nice, and it makes you feel alive, yet you can never shake off the feeling that you’re one step closer to oblivion. The past is safety. I try clinging to it for dear life. Sundays are monuments. Gravestones. They represent everything that ever was, and all that we have to fear. Memories come to me of waking up after going out in town the night before. Terrible hangovers would always grip me. I’d always be on the verge of death as she slept peacefully. Throughout the day, I’d be on the edge, succumbing to fear and nausea. I would sit in her garden feeling sorry for myself, or lay down on the floor with the dog. Those days, when life and death were balanced so finely. The beauty and horrors of everything, smiling at me like a blackbird on a washing line.
Another plane flies overhead.
I’m drinking a can of Budweiser. It’s a smooth taste, and it goes down well. Aphex Twin is on the stereo. The song that’s playing as I write this is the same one I was listening too when news broke of that guy being hacked to death on the streets of London last year. Y’know, the two terrorists attacked him, almost decapitated him?
Maybe in an hour or so, another poem will come my way. When all light is gone from the sky, and the birds stop singing, the words will call my name.