The bruise at the base of my spine is butterfly shaped, dressed and downstairs. My mother's eyes flinch away from a skinniness I'm obvlious to. Lank-haired ; skin splotched with bruises like split wine. Some few drunken srangers trying to lock their eyes into a body thats slowly disappearing, sitting-curled in on myself : at the centre of this, there must be a sort of purity if I just work myself in a little deeper. The bones that catch the cold and hold it must point somewhere. Waking, snared in the limbs of someone I never see again - an unfamiliar voice trying to pin me down with sleep-fuzzed concern. He's slack. Flesh bags round his waist and I'm repelled, I'd do anything not to have to touch. Curling tighter around a hunger that cuts to the bone, trying to find the centre that must be round here somewhere.
I don't mean anything by this. Building myself into a screen of songs - lyrics and an oddly sweet after-taste that comes back to me from this time to time. Glint of street-lights the same brightness and shine sits in the palm of my hand. It's only ok as long as I'm not thinking, and I'm not thinking. Sour-sweet, caught in the back of my throat and swimming through my fingers. It curdles over orange plastic, spatters the newspaper and I'm neither releived nor dissappointed sickened and numbed over - yet underneath this, a quick thrill fizzes my veins, sparks a separate life into me. The machine at my side thrums blood sealing - wax coloured. It catches and sucks back, back on itself. This clattering starts whenever I move, chemical smell rises in my throat, gets stuck there and I just want to get out. Dull sunlight catches the plastic chairs and over-full dustbins outside the window - and I know that it will all settle back ..
meanwhile,back in communist russia
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