Morning After by Phil McNulty

I can’t write. Will miss the deadline

Have lost focus
And gaze beyond the laptop
To the jumble of shapes
Hard edges of letters, mainly bills
Rectangle of television

Negative spaces of chairs pulling me out of form
Crumbs on plates, ants on porcelain,

Egg flecking the eyelid pedal bin
A coil of black snake cables from electric stove.
Painting of flowers, no stems, no stamen, no scent.

Air con hums as bees, swarming in cold-draft warmth of summer.
Timpanation of radio fills think spaces, adverts for Spec Savers

Burgers, breakfasts, grills, more rain and low temperature Spain,

Clocks go back to karaoke nights, endlessly Elvis nights,

happy hours, Bingo and quiz

light shadows white walls, shimmers water in plastic bottles

lends alcoves depth, creates under-bed voids, dream time.
A hammer, woodpecking, affects work.

Not my work.

Sewing machine drones monogrammed golf shirts for dirt pay

a stiletto taps across marble floors

as Juanita flip flops the treadle.
Car starts, revs, drives, returns, doors slam, voices raise, chirruping back to the nest.
A tap cascades water into an aluminium glade.
Kettle-steam fogs cold glass, drips to river delta.

My words dry out on tidal mud banks.

I find my coat. Take money for a beer.

It’s colder inside than outside.

Comments   

0 #1 PHILIP Burton 2021-09-10 14:13
I recognise the space you describe. Flow of consciousness,
but shaped and strong. Great!
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