A drip in the kitchen sink.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Cheap gasoline to drink.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
A raven colored in ink.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
Missing key of a fucking dink.
(Ezra Pound and a POEm, laddies.)
I rolled over on my cushy bed and fell onto the floor. The sun bleared in through the windows and knocked on my head.
I swore. I said, “Fuck you Sol!”
He just eyed me with his judgement and anger.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
I looked up at my bed, and saw that it was the couch. Then I remembered where I was.
I was still in Fuckno.
Damn.
I might have dreamt, but all I could recall was that I fell off a building and awoke just before hitting the ground. It’s been said that if you don’t wake up in time, you can die in your dream.
Sometimes, maybe that is the best option?
Pound. Pound. Pound.
I realized that it was not my heartbeat in my head. Someone was at the front door. It was probably Joey. Fuck him. I snuggled back up in the matted shag carpeting with the cigarette ash and pizza crumbs. It was cozy in the sunlight. I was a cat.
A shadow covered the sun and I thought that it had finally burnt out, so I opened my one eye. A figure stood outside, beyond the sliding glass door, and he had his hands up to his face, trying to look inside.
Joey shouted. He said, “You fucking asshole! Let me in!”
I growled and rolled over and crawled to the door and used the handle to stagger back up. I slid the lock up and then slinked back to the couch.
Today was going to be a marvelous day. I planned to tell him that I was taking off.
Escape.
Fly away.
I just needed to sleep a bit more.
See you in a couple days for the rest. Speaking of rest, it’s been a helluva couple weeks of black sailing, black ink, Blackout Island.
DRINK!
.
