Wake up. Someone is selling a miracle. Gadgets to make you slim. Because you eat too much. For your line of work and it's showing inside. Your belt line. In the creases where your belt line wishes it could still be. But not your's. Time is hard to come by. To eat. To think. About making food. Between commuting. And doing your time on the clock. Someone is selling a miracle. Right now. Earlier you stared through commercials.
Not as long or antagonizing. Through the amber of your squared off bargain. Bottle to nurse the child in you. Climbing to your feet. Can be done in stages so you press. An elbow to the couch hot from the side of your face. Cold in places. Where you drooled snoring. And woke. To the nudge and tuck of fingers prodding your skin. Where the veins come millimeters close to. Kissing is out of the question. You've been smoking again.
In nodding conversation with. Beasts. That come and go like cats through the kitchen door. At the back of your mind. Where things are burning. Smoke detector free. But there's no denying the damage. The black streaks across the roof. Of your mouth. The television is off. Has been off for hours. The bedroom door is closed. You reek of try try again and who are you to interrupt someone else's. Dream. Wash the dishes.
At 4 A.M. Or don't. You are fully. Shit faced. But only because you have not washed that face. In a proper shower. As though it matters. The face of Smiles is clear enough. The silent murk spins into a smile. You mirror toddling. Laughing to an inside joke he's spun to Totsy. Who lolls along the baseboard. Near the living room window. Like she usually does. Waiting for Mouthhand to show. And start the party. With a kiss.
But you are unkissable. Equal parts chemistry set. And throat like a cancer mossy flume. So wash the dishes. Smiles sings from between the rungs of the fire escape. As happy to be. Out of doors as you are in. The shit. You promised you would. Not drink too much. Tonight. You promised you would leave. Work at work and pay. Attention and sleep. Like other people do. Like the people that populate. The rest of the world.
Wash the dishes. It would be easier. With some miracle soap. And a rag. That cures musses like high dose radiation. Or was it stem cells. That realign. Brain matters. A bath of salts? There's no amount of lithium that can heal. Dislocated fingers. Totsy is sighing. While you scrub. Knowing. Full well that you are there and your love asleep. Because you cannot stand being. In the same room. With her. The gang in tow.
There are not enough dishes. To span the hours left before you leave. To hack away at work. Though Smiles coaches. And so you settle back to the couch. Mapped out in cold saliva dots. The place where your head belongs. And wish. She could sleep and never wake up. Again to see you so broken up. Symptoms playing like a continuous infomercial. For nervous corruption. And so you walked.
And they danced. Around their fire. In the cottage on the hill top. Burning its way into the Earth.
