sunshine and lollipops.

The least little thing seems strange and imponderable. Explanation is exasperatingly complicated. I can’t express my needs and feelings until they get to crisis point and become blurted and offensive.

Now I am hungry and have no bread and apples. How do I buy bread? I wave my arms about and point loudly.

I am exposed. Impotent. Locked. Loss of faith has been usurped by deviant thoughts of abandonment and disintegration.

The lollipop lady has just run off, fuming. What am I doing still here? It isn’t working. I have no role. I can’t go home with my tail between my hooves.

Everybody hates me. I hate myself. I am the world and the world is rust. Joyless. Separated. Hungry, angry, lonely. My nerves are literally shattered. I should have damn well had that meeting long before now.

Looking at a pocket mirror. 

Do you love me?

I don’t love the role I’ve been cast in, as your secret. Maybe I could get used to it. Sitting in the back of the car. Sitting in secret on the other side of the road. Sitting in secret in front of the television. Sitting in secret inside of my head, watching a man picking leaves from the autumn tree: the as yet green ones. Sitting in secret beside the oven on the dark side of the gloom. Secretly sitting here, secreting, waiting, to explode. In the Top Secret secrecy of my fettered imagination, I am sidestepping the eye daggers at the opening night of a Modigliani exhibition. Making as if I was deeply invisible and yet somehow capable of being projected, like malevolence, into the air, into the thin air.

The telephone rings accompanied by a brief excerpt from kraftwerk’s ‘der telefon anruf’

the extract is from hurricane moon - a simple drama by martin cooke.

artwork by phlegm - photo jon T.