In exceptional situations we lose our bearings and confelicity as prattle and ignominy spread like spilt ink. Events have taught us that serenity is only ever temporary, one can never rely on freedom from chaos.
Tormented by time and cellular senescence, everything will still function without him. After all there is not much difference between the signs of serenity and the signs of senility.
In the dark breath of autumn he doesn’t know where his mind is. A black hole, an irresistible magnetic pull dragging us down.
A quiddling slicing wilderness wind bit the backs of our legs, blowing frenemies together in solitude and dark frost. Egging each other on.
Taking care not to touch fingertips or tread on the cracks between paving stones. Minds scrambled.
All faint and fuzzy. A state of extreme faff.
An old man with origami limbs and fire in his veins forgets his dentures. Unsaid words scratch at his throat.
Aided footsteps cross a carpet of eggshells moving dust from one place to the next.
In a quiet act of rebellion a mortician with a sense of humour shapes greening lips into a refulgent grin shouting your name as if he were wounded.
Dreamless soulless affairs bring fatal heartache and macabre faces clumsy with grief.
A pack of starved hounds. Eyes reflecting tombstones.
Life gets us one way or another.
Summer sang a quiet pain in my heart. A merciless sun disinfected a merciless son.
Putrefaction. Unmade in the earth.
There was something between us demanding exhumation.
Things we did before we knew what to do. Things we would never do.
Desires diminish with age.
Playing with rainbows alone is a thing of beauty. A quiet act of rebellion for a sensitive soul who puts clean sheets on his bed every day.
Joe Lucking writes for theatre, radio, and screen. You can find him on twitter @joelucking66
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