Wednesday, 18 July 2018

3 haibun

As I walk in one of the waitresses is in mid-coughing-fit. I do my best not to look disgusted or terrified - I’m just recovering from an illness and my thoughts are selfishly anchored in my own health. I think of leaving but feel the awkwardness of such a move would be too much. I sit down in a booth on top of a seat cushioned by terror and disgust or terry and diane. 
‘Ok. What you havin’?’
‘Black coffee, please.’
The coffee arrives. I blow on it out of, one part custom and another part anxiety. I smell it. Obviously bitter but other things. The foam and scum become clouds. I watch portraits of women and animals come and go through a soft parade. A pig shits out Morrissey’s head. To be born of stars, or something or another, it says.

olfaction infinity 
frogs are time

Overheard: ‘Would it be in bad taste to attach a marital aid to an urn and copulate w/ it?’
Overheard: ‘Depends who owns it?’ 
I stop overhearing. It’s hard to stop listening. 
I replace a live drum track w/ a drum machine created on my computer.

sliding peacefully into a begging bowl an amphibian 

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Jackie O has a vision of an outdoors man skinning animals on fresh snow. The moon sits between green lights. The outdoors man obviously has at least a three day stubble. Bobby gets lost while he’s out buying records. The outdoors man obviously overdressed in every occasion. No one has heard from him since. The outdoors man asks directions from a pharaoh. Bobby doesn’t win an oscar. 

somewhere between 
nothing and this world 
migratory birds

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v... z… half cut o’s like the moon but different; cut the other way. Not o, ho. Orchid rosettes pick time - tea served w/ sandwiches of various sizes and filling and feelings. The sky to minor triangle moody / nowhere to go being in time. Feelings picked by colour. Pursed in forgotten autumn hues and that other season - that other season.

ghost orchid
i delete your 
emails 

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