BOILING WINE

I exist/exit/loop in chaos, where nothing really gets done. Decisions and risks and trying are all that are left to be afraid of. Studying aeroplanes with flip-top heads brings no satisfaction to my need to fly away; I’ll never free-fall the way I used to. If equal forces oppose upon a narrow base, my need for shades in the dark will become green and clear as day (although squinting still). No grey resides here anymore. Monochrome stripes mark the walls in alternate two second flashes of wrong choices and the need to change everything I did today, tomorrow. Crawling through the surface area of such an abstract Hell will never add any weight to the other side. 

In a maelstroms eye nothing can change - Trigger - Click - Stasis: It’s the same old story with a different view. 

Poaching herbal tinctures and a damaged release enable me to crush pomegranates and fermented oranges for wine’s intent. I sneer as larvae-infested juice spills amidst chanted, half-assed blessings; infused and strengthened by default and surprise. A recipe for disaster is on the menu tonight; new, improved and nasty tasting like medicine taken with extra seasoning under themoon. 

Seasons balance don’t they? At this time of year, the scales must stop their incessant tipping to one side or the other and rest upon my aforementioned point in perfect precision. A corrugated file containing life’s inability to be organised and smooth  - the self-tensioner is constantly a hopeful problem solver, to pick up the slack. 

How am I supposed to know that? I make mistakes because I am not a keeper of all knowledge, right? I know my shit and they know theirs (apparently) - picking the seeds out to start a new grow is fucking tedious - I’ve done it constantly for 39 years and I’m always in trouble. I waste the time marvelling at people wasting time mostly - say your two penneth and then go back to the TV screen. Paying for hypnotism? We do it everyday unwillingly - making children walk through dark buildings after office hours fucks up their routine and makes them un-talkative. Try again next week doesn’t cut it I’m afraid - they’re not cash bundles to be locked up overnight are they?

Cash bundles = patients in neat beds along the wall. The chalk mark boundaries surrounding their disease-ridden predicaments are deepened unhealthily by the hour. Giving prescriptions in anxiously precise quantities does not lessen nor darken the lethal, penultimate dose. Death is part of the stock take, the relieved sigh of one less to pay for resounds through budget-frantic restaurants and the freshly cut flowers on waiting room tables. 

So, we are back to aeroplanes; the in-flight drink being pomegranate wine. The departure lounge is filled with silent crowds on a one way ticket to the ultimate freedom. The witching hour approaches as the gate numbers are invoked from blown speakers a hundred years old. And nothing brings on apprehension like an intravenous infusion of anti-anxiety medication.

srwb 2010