Medicine Box

We can colour our memories (conscience?) clean/ In shades of dihydrocodeine


IT RHYMES.

By the by, here endeth depressing posts for a while. I'm getting a little sick of cataloging various hues of self hatred. There are better things to do.

Bollocks to you, bollocks to me.

She pulls on thick suck-in pants under black netted tights; a bra fit-to-bust with double the required breast size and a palpable pudgy overhang; the plunge pool of her belly groans with the strain of a large portion meal tucked into a small-portion skirt. Low neckline, adorned with a hand-shaped pendant reaching low into her cleavage. It's meant to symbolise a Muslim's promise to prayer five times a day: the true meaning is lost in folds of fat and irony. All this to advertise the undertow of emotional need; sex and love are relative terms. The two are simultaneously irrelevant and unlikely.

Women are shit.

Look Forward to Suburbia.

It's a kind of abstract conglomeration of love and loathing on my part and submarine detachment on hers. [ Submarine=hundreds of mad, feverish, scrabbling and sweaty Souls to be Saved from a cold titanium shell, although occasional porthole viewings reveal a grand total of two men playing cards slowly, and probably Solitaire at that ]. I'm not sure why I'm with her.

We fuck often enough to be afraid of her fertility. Each blotless month promotes another spatter of frantic activity in which we pelt our bodies with pills, booze, tobacco. A military-machine-gun like salvo in which no organs are spared. Liver, heart, kidneys, lungs; all hack and pulse and ulcerate in protest whilst she dispassionately dissects a future spelled out for us in entrails; guest towels, kitten- themed egg cups and ironically chintz curtains at thirty. You ooze around your urban domain in our Porsche, I sit at home and watch our frozen embryos take shape in the womb of a our paid Filipino surrogate. We are happy. We have dogs.