If I try sometimes or Miahi Sora brings chaos with words or I got stuck in my head again or I have powerful, loving, glorious, valorous eggs
Bless Tug Dumbly and his breathing unpronounceable god. I was stuck in my office, not like The Spatula was stuck in hers, I was stuck in a vacuum of thought. I sat for two hours staring blindly at the computer after everyone had gone home willing myself to make a move, one way or the other but I couldn't. So I sat in my indecision unable to move or breathe or leave until suddenly it lifted and I knotted my scarf and turned the key in the lock.
Half an hour later I thought I don't care what happens next. I walked from Redfern to to Glebe with Can't Always Get What You Want by the Rolling Stones on repeat waiting for the guitar that scatterguns my heart. I wasn't hungry so I stopped at Oportos, sliding chilli dressed with chicken down my throat and reading a short story. I photocopied it for Superman because he needs these words for his chaos. I've anointed it in coffee rings and chilli oil. I've carried it kilometres and read it out loud cause I need these words for my chaos.
I got lost somewhere in Glebe and had to phone The Peach for internet navigation assistance. I wound up at Friend in Hand and sat down next to the one of The Beautiful Boys, a man practically scrambled over me to get the corner seat. I was going to elbow him in the head then I noticed he was the man in a hat that I followed around at the Sydney Underground Film Festival. He's obnoxious and quaint like a typewriter or a rock in my shoe.
Tug Dumbly featured and I remembered words I wrote about him once before. This time the chilli or the words or the vodka are jumping at me from the inside. I want to be clear about this but not right now. Right now I'm toxic with oncoming sleep and the absence of portents. Right now I'm spinning sentences in my hands about Mihai Sora and his beautiful chaos. Right now I'm thinking if it wasn't for the words there wouldn't be a reason.
Half an hour later I thought I don't care what happens next. I walked from Redfern to to Glebe with Can't Always Get What You Want by the Rolling Stones on repeat waiting for the guitar that scatterguns my heart. I wasn't hungry so I stopped at Oportos, sliding chilli dressed with chicken down my throat and reading a short story. I photocopied it for Superman because he needs these words for his chaos. I've anointed it in coffee rings and chilli oil. I've carried it kilometres and read it out loud cause I need these words for my chaos.
I got lost somewhere in Glebe and had to phone The Peach for internet navigation assistance. I wound up at Friend in Hand and sat down next to the one of The Beautiful Boys, a man practically scrambled over me to get the corner seat. I was going to elbow him in the head then I noticed he was the man in a hat that I followed around at the Sydney Underground Film Festival. He's obnoxious and quaint like a typewriter or a rock in my shoe.
Tug Dumbly featured and I remembered words I wrote about him once before. This time the chilli or the words or the vodka are jumping at me from the inside. I want to be clear about this but not right now. Right now I'm toxic with oncoming sleep and the absence of portents. Right now I'm spinning sentences in my hands about Mihai Sora and his beautiful chaos. Right now I'm thinking if it wasn't for the words there wouldn't be a reason.
Comments