Sunday, 23 May 2010

Where the Wild Things Are

(originally posted on myspace here)


The voice of Garnier boarded the 23:53 from London Bridge bearing Sauvignon Blanc and a bucket of popcorn in a 5p plastic bag from Marks and Spencers and having made his way through those standing to a spare aisle seat across from two still-sobre women in what it is perfectly acceptable these days to refer to as fake tan, perched his purchases. A punnet of two drumsticks was then brought out and as he fumbled around for a corner to open, the voice of Garnier felt a sudden pang about the boldness of eating chicken in quarters these confined, but calculating that were it not polished off on the journey he would only have to share it at the other end the voice of Garnier persevered, elbows tight by his side, managing finally to break into the packaging with the sharpest of a bunch of keys. Avoiding eye contact, still dandling the bag on his knee and doing his best to keep his beard clear of the meat while he ate he now began to notice traces of blood appear on his finger tips. It was on the chicken too, which didn't taste raw, and on further inspection the voice of Garnier discovered the source of the blood was in fact his own split mouth. Meanwhile on a pin-board in Brockley his beloved beamed beside two new housemates in a polaroid taken the night before by Police Constable Wolf.

Give her a place to stand and she'll move the Earth.

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