I’ve been hankering against a subtle pressure, Reaching up walls of my throat, that continue to fill up the pit in my stomach. A phantom press, squeezing a good day away like a rabbit from the fox.
Maybe I’m just irrational, paranoid by stability. See, statistically, every grouping of people, also known as mates, as the years go by, seems to always indefinitely feature some sort of tragedy.
Twenty, thirty, forty years together, bonded by the years, crafted by childhood. A million words, a thousand interactions, a hundred nights out and ten mates.
No one’s died, or permanently maimed, or severely taken by mental health, prison, social banishment, a woman scorned or god forbid, children. We’re all sailing on, unharmed.
And that makes me nervous, the roulette barrel spins with equal favour. Like they says, If you don’t know anyone loud or annoying or obnoxious, it’s usually you.
If I haven’t had a car crash, been on tv during a major disaster, had cancer grow somewhere I can’t see , Been sectioned in dramatic fashion, or publicly shamed for my unhinged desires.
Maybe it’s just the anxiety speaking, that ruthless bint. But what if it’s me?, the shadow creeps, precognition to the doom. I’m I running away from fate, hurdling towards a statistic.
Am I losing my mind, or is it my destiny to take one for the team. Am I losing my life?, one rapid breath at a time. Or am I simply, Am I the one?
I wish I knew what was going through the mind of that horse, having bucked it’s owner to the lake. Was it an accident?, a local spook?, Or was it a conscious move, that he had no choice but to take.
The horse, as stone, glares to the icy plunge, Swaying slightly to the wind that flutters through his mane. This was no tragedy, this was purpose, Bred from a lifetime of endurance, maltreatment and a patience that has waned.
The bristled grey Strands reach finally the surface, Face down, eyes front to the abyss. I’ve never seen a horse smile, But I’ve ever seen a horse happier than this.
The horse rips his gaze away from the final view, Of the man that held him hostage, a well groomed slave. The horse leaves his former master behind, Delivers an eye shot of victory, then returns to the cave.
With every passing step. I forget more on where I’ve been. It must be morning surely. Perhaps the best I’ve ever seen.
What a night, what a feeling, I’d do it all over again. Dancing the night away forever, With my love, my family, my friends.
But it begs the question, can I ask, where I am? Was there something else in that joint? The shadow of a sun dial clips my leg, As a mother tells her children not to point.
The hiccup of the daylight, blasting from passing cars, Injects me with the memory of a night fading fast. A strobe loaded war zone. Man what a rush. Do I need any help? A nice lady just asked.
What a night it must have been, last night, last year? Who knows. A man just called me a state, but I’m not sure which one. Tell the world to stop spinning so fast, I think I’m going to be sick. Take me back to the party, back to that song.
I need to get home, but to where? To who? Take me back to the good times, back when I had shoes. Transport me back to her smile, I promise, promise, promise you I won’t use.
Maybe someone spiked me, Maybe they are just judgmental. Maybe I’m just a-bit lost. Maybe I’ll blame it on my parents. Maybe actually on my friends. Maybe it’s my childhood. Maybe it’s just fate. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe the Drugs. Maybe drugs. Maybe. Me.
Is it a hand? What else could it be? Maybe it’s left over from Halloween. It’s January. When’s the last time you recycled? You don’t know me. Charming. Do we call the police? We don’t even know If it’s real. What about all that meat and blood spewing out of it? Could be a college film, price of student fees nowadays I’m sure they have decent props. And the smell? I think that’s just me. Ahh right yes. Well come on then. Come on now what? Touch it, see if it’s real. And then what? Book my solicitor for court?- You touch it. I’m allergic to, whatever it is your asking me -I just really don’t want to. Fine. Oh my god. What? You won’t believe it. Not if you don’t tell me no. It’s cake. Not again. “Game show noise” Every time.
