Cosmic Flotsam and Jetsam

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“How’s the writing going?” she shouts. I make to reply, but her laughter and the dog’s barking drowns out any chance of being heard.

“Fine,” I mutter. Finishing my beer, I grab another and sit down with my arms crossed. I can feel my mood sinking. The beer isn’t helping, but neither is the threat of death or the idea that none of this holds even the slightest grain of significance. Not my writing, nor the love we cling to in the hope it will save us from being washed away into the far reaches of the universe like cosmic flotsam and jetsom. The weight of love is a heavy one, and yet against the sands of time, it’s about as meaningful as taking a shit. And I love taking shits, I really do, especially after a night of heavy drinking, I can’t say my bowel movements are going to be remembered far down the line, however. Lifting a cheek, I squeeze out a gut of foul-smelling gas. The smell is repulsive, and yet because it’s my own, I can’t help but give it a sniff. Raising my fingers, I think about writing something down but change my mind and instead go back to sniffing the horrid contents of my body. Meeko’s always telling me to change my diet or go visit the doctor, but I do as I please.

“Are you asleep?” she cries. The dog mimics her by barking. It makes me smile, but only a bit.

“Yes,” I respond, but I’m not sure if she hears me or not.

“You better not be in a mood,” she says, “you must be positive while you write, or else the words will fail you,” she continues before going back to laughing with the dog.

Sniffing the air as the smell of chargrilled chicken takes prominence again, I look at the photo and then at the blank screen of the laptop before leaning back and gazing at the ceiling. It’s stained yellow. We shouldn’t smoke indoors, and yet we do, and it’s not hard to see. Everything is stained, either by smoke or the stains of our skin. We wash and are clean, then fuck and are dirty. I’m not consistent with my writing, and yet I am with being repulsive. Gulping down more beer, I break wind and sniff. It’s worse, this time. Crawling off the chair, I lie down on the floorboards like a sick bird going to the bottom of its cage to die.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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