Standing in the shower smoking. Damp ash descends upon bare foot and mixes with trickling water, forming rain-inspired mud puddles. Feet sploosh stomp and squish jump. Dont sing in the rain, and dont write erotica; or do. A drain clogged with butts and Movember-inspired former beard hair (how the glorious fall when put to the knife) begins to overflow. A puddle becomes a river becomes an ocean becomes shelter. Shampoo bottles make for poor reading, and jut out from the soapy sea, jagged cliffs or lighthouses, their foamy beacons guiding me to cleanliness. The lufa does its synthetic impression of an anemone and swims over my body, a sweet smelling brine left in its wake. The klaxon call of a smoke detector, startled from hibernation, widens eyes and aches ears. Lids lie back down, and the noise pollution, too, plays its role: fog horns warning approaching ships of the dangers. Dont swim in the ocean, and dont write erotica; or do. youtu.be/MYSVMgRr6pw
Posted on: Sun, 16 Nov 2014 21:12:11 +0000
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