Haven’t seen much for a few (what they call) days,
The only reflection I ever see, (always see, cant escape, are swans still white?) is that bouncing round my sphreical prism,
my doughy loaf encrusted throughout with shards of tinted glass
Light beams rattle round, refract, constantly change, (pretty much) bend, twist, piroette, startle, appear, disappear, reappear, they stop and consider what they are and what they’re for, direction seems pointless, (they’re bored), they dream, they imagine
They whisper (and they scream) images into the black of my eyelids, they colonise them, spear their flag in and are met with no resistance, so I am now them and they are me
What do they reflect?
They shed light (haha) on skin which is pallid and terse, almost crispy like cardboard, plumped up by melted fat which flows viscous, slow and comfortable like cows milk, lovingly warmed to remedy an anxious night,
carbohydrate pimples (as round as a bosom) contour the pale cardboard, all over the person
All over its (almost) boneless structure, bones slowly dissolve in blood which pools and ferments like a stagnant, forgotten pond, subsuming an intact rib cage and clean, unbruised knuckles which try and let themselves known along long jelly fingers (the same yellow as holly Willoughby’s hair), attached to a blobby jelly palm (the same cream as the walls), attached to a long wobbling jelly arm of the jelly boy, the jelly boy
An arm which rises from between the sofa cushions, from between the duvet and pillows, escaping from the duck-feather ocean
Attempt, strain, strain,
Strain, strain, (try not to flop), strain to raise that jelly arm in the air as an argument which points like the end of a pencil, piercing through parentheses,
direction, difficult, upwards, forward, try and open your eyes jelly boy, try and think of outside:
Jelly boy tries to shout, jelly boy tries to talk about boris johnson in disdain, jelly boy tries to remember how to laugh at something other than the smell of his silent farts, and tries to write something distinct from suburban boredom, boredom, (inescapable boredom) because hes surely, definitely, certainly, (cmon, he must be), a bit more grown up??
an adult? a man?
Can’t do it… try…
Sweating sweat as sweet as neat orange squash
Ugh, cmon, c’mon
The weight of the strain is too much for jelly boys jelly muscles
Not made to move
He resigns to a sigh
The expels air which smells of secret, midnight cigarettes and tinned beer
the smell rises thick like a fume and makes jelly boy’s eyes roll back, roll back
pointlessly bend, twist, piroette, anonymously appear, disappear, reappear behind closed eyelids,
What else to do
But Surf the light beams in all their absurdity?
Surf the light beams because its something to do