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 & shine sits in the palm of my hand. It's only okay as long as I'm not thinking, and I'm not thinking. Sour-sweet, caught in the back of my throat & swimming through my fingers. It curdles over orange plastic, spatters the newspaper & and I'm neither releived nor dissappointed sickened & 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 & sucks back, back on itself. This clattering starts whenever I move, chemical smell rises in my throat, gets stuck there & I just want to get out. Dull sunlight catches the plastic chairs & over-full dustbins outside the window - and I know that it will all settle back into place now the fire has died away.