[Blizzard of draft, I deleted bottom half for another time, tightrope is very taut, this one :/]
No cash, and no food in the fridge. Only tobacco soothes a heightened anxiety. Gathered round one cigarette we warm fingers, a solace upon concrete floor. My clan, urchins dwell the far fringes, Twenty-first Century fringes, poverty fringes an industrial Brighton. No justice, my people, when I am great author, and everything authorial, can only, merely journal my truth, my satanic, milled Saturday truth. As for industry, think petrol stations, Halfords probably for your vehicle maintenance. This, the cash flow issue frames a day due to ladies: women spented, spendled my wage, my wage one thousand pounds, all a week ago, on hair appointment. Unbelievable, to think this, I herd 120 000 chickens for this condition of malnutrition.
Yet we remain a proud people. Our people have nice hair, our front room, our standards, and this last night, I arranged – a tray of sea coals, passed the platter among ladies. Every lady gave coal her lick. Later, I rinsed black stones under tap, outdoors, for the next time.
These are the black stones.
I wrote a poem about these, the black stones, months ago, a pretty poem: save us all I thought, like a father I thought, sent it away, long-hauled to a medium-sized poetry outfit California ways, oh, the other day. Still, don’t fancy my chances, cover note was kind of crazed, more rushed really a strangulated plea. But the issue with stones – well, during that period of unemployment bc – before chicken career, I wrote one hundred and fifty poems, and one thousand and fourteen blog entries: wandered the beach, pointless of breath, the fresh ozone, all alone, only cheeks in wind was me. Yes, shall dig surplus beach poem out for mass observation, maybe? Yes, that one, that one poem’s central theme, you see – it turned out that the black stones were not the real sea coal we require for hearth-hold, only the ordinary black pebbles, useless, quite terrible news for me, a man feels foolish collecting only black pebbles from the beach, well, you would too: imagine like chop, forest, the firewood, your wood revealed as copse of plastic trees, a Christmas B&Q arrangement – like my disappointment, this condition.
So Saturday, ladies all sat – surround of hairdos, and one cigarette in lounge – I walked away, ‘some time’ I said, followed banister up to bedroom, swept a host of hair spray canisters, the hair glue, hair attachments away from singlet sheet cover, sat down, switched bakelite wireless on…and on I listened, transfixed by great events: Dusseldorf where Gypsy king Tyson Furious thumped Vladimir Klitscho, total pulp oblivion, patsied
the Uranian dolly. Fantastic fighting – pursued in mind’s eye only, a mind transported light years away, 1936, black and white Max Spiller flattens Mohammed Ali to the canvas, to think both men controversially covered, all over, a new after-shave lotion, a new era.
[tense?]Finally, eleven pm a knock on window, daughter’s boyfriend arrives, forty pound note presented – for me to share with other children. I offer him coal. No, he says. Meanwhile the wife rushes off license for provision. Hastily, purchases she mighty, a single bottle of wine in her coat only, for our lonely supper. Sad evening climax, religious scene, wife and I perched in grey nighties, the end of wooden bed, hold chipped china mugs, our candle flickers between us, warming contents of mugs. Aged limbs brought back to condition, we sleep – lubricated for a new day, and today luncheon the tinned tomato, the experience.