a fiesta of charms

...nonchalant disorder...
‘My face is like the face you have seen many times.’ James
Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room
...the summer in her voice had tightened, though the softness of
her pronunciations of deeming life a forlorn loss, cultivated a
romance in her ways that was unable to be replicated... tea
stained laughter, precipice adorned eyes, death dialled up and
then hung up... with the thought that we had both decide our
own fate, I advised a frisson of candour, a moment of declaration
that stood for the acceptance that the wounded ascent of our
relationship seemed to be a furnace now... hot coal set on fire to
the sound of the falling rain...
Gabo walked into the living room, the living room I had spent so
much time alone, waiting for what exactly I didn’t know... now
hearing Gabo speak of problems related to Gabine...
xxx
...walking past the bridge I had once flung myself off, I
recognised the feeling, the same feeling I had that night and
started to laugh at the absurdity of things... cats crawling on wet
puddles... a bottle of Irn Bru half finished blowing in the wind...
a brown chair sat outside a flat now wet... an old big back
television with a cracked screen... two pigeons fighting over a
piece of Kebab meat bespeckled with white Garlic sauce...
memories distorting into current happenings that obligate a
sense of death looming...
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