Friday, 13 January 2012

To Get To The City

To get to the city necessitated a rat-scramble under barbed wire and a quick decision. A split second’s hesitation would risk collision and mutilation. The two times I did it, under cover of the darkness, we always took the left run. A scar in the ground burned by people as desperate as me. Look up, yes, he’s there. The loon-moon faced guard who watches our every move. At any moment he might shower you with spit, bullets or nothing.

When you have to plot your every move. When you start to run through the simplest of tasks in your mind: getting dressed, washing, shaving, brushing teeth. Worst of all, the whole rigmarole of eating. When you have to consider each one of these actions, play it out like a film through the projector-mind before just getting on and doing it and each act seems like something giant, wearying before you’ve even done it. There must be a name for this.

An empty cup, white as a tooth with a roustabout of coffee stains riding up its inner walls.

The strata of blackness held in a coffee pot.
Amber bubbles of delicate froth. The plunger up,
waiting to be depressed like a cartoon detonator.


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