The Unwinding Hours


Bombing the universe, I piss in a plant pot while drunk and watching The Shining for the fifth night in a row. The American version, mind, none of your European bullshit. Convinced my early death is imminent, I roll a cigarette and observe the scene where Jack confronts the woman in room 237. It’s the bit where he goes to the bathroom and finds her waiting for him in the nude. I remember watching this as a kid and being confused about the woman’s pubic hair. Why does she have hair down there? What’s between her legs, and how is it different to what I’ve got? Oh, that childish naivety. Little did I know that I would spend my entire adult life wanting to return to such a place. And those twins, why did I hate and love them in the same breath? I once wrote a poem called “Two Twins Fisting”, but luckily for me, no evidence remains save for the title. There’s a girl that keeps looking at me. She’s brunette and wears eyeliner. She’s got a nice smile, and she’s always smiling. I’ve missed the warmth of such a thing, and even though she’s too young for me, every time I set eyes upon her, I want her a little bit more. Does she sing? Does she sleep in heaven, or does she sleep in hell? My favourite word is biscuit, and my favourite game “Bioshock Infinite”. No one’s asking, but I’m telling you whether you like it or not. My favourite position is her on her belly with me on top. Maybe a handful of hair, too. My time of the day is midnight. My meal a traditional Sunday roast. Are there such things as ghosts? Does she use tampons or those nappy things? I’d rather not know in all fairness, but I’ve an inquisitive mind that needs to know more than it should. Things could be better, but then again, they could be worse. Tomorrow’s my day off. I’m slightly constipated, but just recently, my orgasms have been as electric as they’ve been in my entire life. Maybe the threat of death is giving me a sly kick. Maybe the sight of the woman in the bath has been crawling under my skin making me relive those old childhood fears. Dreams of spiders scuttling up my nose while I’m asleep. Dreams of a life that could’ve been mine but which was denied me. Jack Torrence- are you me or my father? Is Wendy a mother or a lover? Is the bottle a demon or a gift? Does it even matter? Dunno. Don’t care.

6 replies »

  1. I see that you are on amazon. Yours is the only blog I have followed so consistently through the years. I would love to buy your book but is there a chance somehow that I get a signed copy? šŸ™‚

    • That’s very nice of you to say šŸ™‚ You know on Amazon it’s only regular copies, but I would be more than willing to send you a copy? It seems only fair considering how you have stood by me over the years.

      • Wow. I am flattered. Although it might seem a wee bit upfront, please let me know how I could make the payment including the cost for shipment. I could send you my postal address.

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