A thick silence falls like weather on copious tables. Knives are out for culinary butchery and the forks sing like daisies in a maiden’s hair. Glints of fine luminescence fail to glamorise the awkward tension, like a barn door swinging in the heat of a fetid summer afternoon. It’s a horn of plenty, or a banished soul wandering in the fumes forever, flying never, constant ever, in the go-over.
It’s a choice. I am the latter.
I saw you there, I had been waiting. Under the dome of the stars, you never once glanced at me. I framed you in the oblong silence but you did not turn. I saw you with that crazy ice-cream hair and the faceless men surrounding you like flies on a popsicle --- but you never looked. Trauma on drama to be so studiously ignored.
No warm unity or hot delights within or without or between us can say what could be wet or dead or silent in this atomised darkness. It’s of your own {cold} making. One-sided relationships always arrive with a full set of catastrophic punctures.
It’s all about the mighty dollar, see. It’s all a bloody purpose of strange delights to hammer the day with weasel words and squirrelled platitudes. But you don’t see that in your glitzed up champagne world of foul delights, do you? Make the cash and splash the headlines. That’s you in your timely dance.
Wrapped up or spat out. It makes no difference. It never does. It will end in tears. But in my reprehensible defence, I told you this a dozen moons ago.
Steve Wheeler © 30 September, 2021
Photo © Steve Wheeler
