flat

my sleep pattern is so fucked up by my apartment. by the heavy door that slams. the gin in coffee mugs. and the girl talking about the blow job she gave in the back of taxi.
i don't really mind as long as there is a period when everyone is gone. lizzie sings in the shower. if there's bread that's vegan, we make toast while her hair dries. and then slice up a mango. exclaim wonder at evolution of natural fruit sugar and the pattern of giraffe hair. she eats the mango skin and i turn up al green on her computer. we yell and roll around talking about steinbeck.
but everyone is hanging around today. i buggered my knee and i'm bored. i read all day, listen to someone bitch about about the state of kitchen and a discussion of kevin spacey's sexuality. and i am angry that my knee hurts and i can't leave and walk. and that i trusted my bones to thin umbrella tendons for protection from a downpour of blue veins, of fucking gravity. and that i'm hungry and that i've finished cannery row. "how can the poem and the stink and the grating noise-the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream-be set down alive? when you collect marine animals there are certain flat worms so delicate that they are almost impossible to capture whole, for they break and tatter under the touch. you must let them ooze and crawl of their own will onto a knife blade and then lift them gently into your bottle of sea water."

London, United Kingdom