Promises Promises


There be lightning outside, and a growl of thunder followed by a mouthful of semi-expensive white wine. The one with the image of the devil on the label. Streets illuminate, and for a second, night becomes day. Among the trees, the eyes of the animals can be seen, only to quietly recede. The TV throws shapes at me but I’m not looking. There are words that come in spurts. Visions that flicker only to leave me hanging yet again. Closing my eyes, I see a bridge over a river, and upon this bridge, a young woman with brunette curls afraid she might fall in. For a moment, she stands there wishing to disappear beneath the surface, and the puzzled look on her face mirrors my own. Drinking some more wine, I roll a cigarette, albeit clumsily. Giving it all I have, I try knocking out a few lines of poetry but nothing clicks. Instead, I open the window and listen to the rain. Each drop explodes on the hoods of the cars parked outside. Each drop splashes on whatever it can find, and in its own way, the night seems full of possibility. Nature is evil. She is evil. This is what I manage to write. And then I decide no more words shall be written. So wine and lightning it is. Every place I’ve ever stepped foot is still out there. Everyone I’ve ever loved, wrapped up in the love of someone more for real. In the arms of another who played the game of life far better. Rain gets in through the window and lands on my laptop. I shut the thing and drink more wine thinking of that painting by Goya. The one of Saturn chomping on his son. And that one of the nude reclining on some pillows. She had juicy tits. And pubic hair made from twigs and feathers and the eyelashes of virile deer.

When she wake, the cold air come from under the door making her shiver. Her nipples go hard. If I were with her, I be touching and sniffing them like a naughty kid. Be fiddling with them. Be licking and sucking them hard enough to bruise the skin. Putting on some nearly dirty clothes, she make some coffee and sit out in the garden. She got a bad belly. It be all topsy-turvy. It go around and round like a washing machine, so she put some brandy in the coffee and it help to settle things. Leaning back in her rickety chair, the warm air blow against her still-tired face and she smile. She smile and feel pretty, like a kitty sipping milk from a bowl. The bottled kind they used to leave on your doorstep back when your grandparents were still alive. Been a while now. When she steady herself, she hop to the kitchen and spread some jam on a slice of bread. She sprinkle some sugar on it, too, and when she gobble it down, colour comes back to her cheeks. Sometimes, life never feels good enough for her. It promises promises, and yet the magic so often never comes to much at all. People waltz about with grand sentiments. They insist they know the way, but their way is so often tread with as little meaning as a turd on a sidewalk, going hard and crusty beneath a hot, midday sun. Still, the brandy does the job, and when she turn on the radio, those nagging fears don’t amount to much at all, so she sit there in her rickety chair lost in fantasy, and behind those eyelids, the world dances to a tune that makes the birds in the trees think she one of them.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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