Portrait: a clutter of not terribly good light
She was inactive. Familiarity brought him winter. She wanted to be company. His mind wouldn't clear. So much for infrastructure. For once, no sign of several people.
Good news. Another male shook his own head. A chair. It was a hard-drinking man, he thought, hearing several voices. He hated their images, frowning. Several voices were not good news. Greedy. The only window, a little object.
The men rushed forward. They dragged her off him; obliterated, tall, narrow. Raised eyebrow. He woke up. The light! Shallow breathing. A little vague on details of his recent extravaganza. A stranger here. Angry friends in the middle of a future. The raving young woman. He had to breathe. To drink himself, unconscious. The entire absurd event.
So far, he didn't know. Unfortunately, for the first time. On the table, is the political environment. Surrounding it had been lots of big talk. About an half hour of it. Let it matter. He was still in the room.
He drew breath. He stood well balanced in an adjacent room. Hard-drinking man announced finally.
On the outer room, was now a crazed young woman he had formerly advocated, burst back; and sat smugly. Up and down stairs to the toilet. More than halfway up a step back. He was new, freshly packed; while he didn't know her, since the men's encroaching, which way to the little company. In some misunderstanding, side-stepped, nowhere, drawing one leg up, breathing through his mouth. In some ways, the girl could be the maximum company in the room. Raised eyebrow.
Which way to give meaning, make sense of the light from the girl. Her finger poked to ward her. Gripping hands. Could only pretend to avoid himself.
Little vague about it. He had to breathe. He was now a drunk. Once he was taller than anyone else in the summer. He felt like wood.
The only view to avoid himself. Old belly.
His eye was swollen.
He wasn't speaking to be released. Sucking air, money. A stranger of dust motes, a mouthful of clear spirit. Here he was to enter at himself, godforsaken, circling, the door to the images he didn't have. They dragged her about. She'd know she was hired.
A general reorganisation of a strange fall, for a few days, to lower the man. A vast fortune, accusing him. He handled such things. He was not terribly good. His voice could only pretend to become.
He had no sign of the window. He had to live out her days. Tastes. Hang him.
And then, in the room, a double brandy and family, while he sulked. The problem posed by compassion. Today he hated his gloom.
He thought maybe he'd be released in any sense. Existing. Unfortunately. Tongue the only furniture. In her face. In the exact place. Time announced finally. Tell your friends! Unrepentantly.
This singularity the edge. He was still more specifically. Tradition. Trying to drink himself. The only company in the winter. To drink himself to avoid himself. Could only pretend to be breath.
He thought maybe he'd taken it into his head. In despair. In the winter. No sign.
Simply holding to Fate, perpetually short of angry friends. Which he had always assumed. Liked her. Today especially. Today especially. Today, he was deposited here, young lady. Supposed to drink himself unconscious.
As a study.
He hated the length of him. Once he knew. What has happened to me? Blocking properties. The problem posed by the clock.
She shrieked, the man, standing on it yet, in the middle. The woman doing.
She was put out from her first time, staring, trying to enter, gills sucking. His eyes watered. His concentration ran down, scalp rippling, a halo of tracks. She squirmed free, standing again. Bony creature.
This singularity. Several voices were.
To gather himself.
She squirmed free, in the outer room, almost horizontal. No way to be released; the little creature's outrage always assumed, the extent of innovative myths.
Progenitors deserve themselves. A trick he'd learned. A warm tongue out, a halo of him, a clutter of not terribly good light.
Lawrence Upton. Poet; visual artist; sound artist; performer; based in West Penwith, Cornwall. Latest print publication WIRE SCULPTURES (Reality Street, 2003)
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