LIFEFORCE (SEVEN STORIES : A POSTSCRIPT) BY STEVEN HOLDING.
Traditions.
Heroism. The will to survive. Every year, without fail, days falling away, quicker each time.
Mummy’s brave little soldier. Zero heroics. The narrowing of hours as times arrow flies.
Eh, eh?
A severe thinking problem. A regular twelve-stepper. Forget footsteps, goosesteps and quicksteps you are following the programme. Grudgingly trudging a few steps behind the tempo of the rest of the temperance movement, admittedly, but still you’re FOLLOWING THE PROGRAMME. Daylight filtered through a half-full glass; a bar abandoned just like your empty heart and the out-turned pockets of eight am Monday morning tipplers. Being caught knee deep in such muddy thoughts sucks, so much so you’re failing to notice almost all the other patrons appear to be displaying equal amounts of piss-poor mental wealth.
Fragile body’s failing, mind a time machine. Picking at threads, unravelling reality. Looming illumination, like moonbeams dancing on the dappled ripples of an ink black silky diminishing pint of stouts surface. How much time? How much life? The same as a song that’s never played twice. Brushing your teeth in yet another stained sink, the stink of the drain, thinking of your thirst even then. Another meeting. Another greeting. HI, MY NAME IS AND I AM A... A clean TV edit, bereft of curses, cut up to pieces, totally fudged up.
Beginning to have suspicions that you can’t dance to poetry, no matter how hard you try, but who on earth would want to dictate what song a bird should sing. No truth but your own truth and if you don’t own it, the truth owns you. It owes you nothing.
Wherever you really are, it probably isn’t getting any better. Relegated to Radio Two.
I love you. Don’t be afraid. Please help me. A remnant of dreams that meant well. Under the bed, a dead baby obsesses over its reflection. When the poster says missing, is that what they are or just how people feel about them? How do you define a ghost? When you look back, everything is empty, you are the only spirit present.
Until now.
Afterwards, an offer to use the facilities. Still shell-shocked, you accept. Grimy white tiles; light alike. Fractured mirror frames a stranger. Bathtub sans plug. The spray washes away; blood, sweat, sick and semen. Sicker men, tears disguised amongst the waters mist. Scrubbing away memories an impossibility. Cleansed body their own once again.
No one escapes. Exits unscathed. Gets away with it. Routine allows a pretence of normality, for a life in constant flux fucks us up. The mere act of existence makes you a slave. It’s always nice to be nothing but a memory.
The shimmering dream draws out a shiver, draws out a scream as you drown in the river. Traditions, heroism, the ill will survive, every year, without fail, days falling away. Quicker each time.
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