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And now for the third part of four-part Late Night Tales story |
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"Flat of Angles" |
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Written by Simon Cleary |
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And read by me Benendict Cumberbatch |
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I just can't access my thoughts |
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Or put them into words |
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I think now my brain recycle been awaiting deletion |
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Still no reply to my text, I send to its ... |
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Oh, let me see |
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9:48, and it's now 10 o'clock |
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She hasn't texted to me in response |
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To my imploring, longing, yearning message |
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full of wiring sudden grief |
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Thus, morning! |
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How are you |
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I enjoyed our journey in the dark so can't wait this night! |
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Back at my place, looking forward to the gig tonight |
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what time can you get there? |
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Where is Rhythm Factory? |
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Have a great day! |
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Kiss. |
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As many questions as possible all crying out for response |
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surface lightness, reflective even |
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Asking after, referring to events our showing her I'm thinking of her |
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The kiss bow |
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That was contemplative for a good five minutes although we held hands briefly |
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Near McDonald's on the Earl's Court Road last night |
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I don't know that was to forward the kiss, too presumptuous now |
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But, her touch, sent a clean electric impulse through me |
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up my arm, into my brain |
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It cuts through the K, the sodium light |
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the rain I longed to protect her from my arms |
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Now he's check of the message this phone results |
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a little clutch of pain somewhere of the sanity is heart |
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The snails are climbing all over the wall in my bathroom |
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There is a bush outside the window |
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when it rains if I've left the window open |
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which I need to, sometimes |
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They crawl in |
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The iridescent tracery they leave on |
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Unknown journey sparkles in the bob light |
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I take a Tesco-bag glove and gather them, |
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bundle them out the window. |
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My time spend with you before the war. |
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She said she was going to Spain, hoped it wouldn’t rain, |
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heard it wouldn’t rain. I wanted to go too, |
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she said she was a solo traveler, |
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But it was her rule, |
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she goes on journeys alone. |
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With plenty to read. |
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I recommend some books, so that perhaps a thought of me would go with her. |
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Perhaps I am the only thought she had. |
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Or more probably, she never thought of me, as I did of her. |
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I wanted to say these things, |
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but there was always a wall around me, |
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I could never tell people how much they meant to me. |
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I could tell others how much I hated some people, |
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but could never even tell a friend I appreciated their company |
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until I’d had 10 cans, then it would descend into a stereotypical drunken |
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“You’re my best mate, you are.” |
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So we opened that bottle of absinthe, and sat on the couch. |
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I knocked a copy of The Face onto the floor, |
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and cleared away a few cans with my boots. |
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We turned to face each other there, |
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an my knee touched hers. |
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I looked at our knees together, |
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hers at the top of the black leather boots, hidden in grey woollen tights, |
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with little bobbles on them. |
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Her knee moved imperceptibly away, |
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but I felt it. |
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I looked up to her face |
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as she said “Drink a shot with me, and look me in the eye as you do.” |
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We did. |
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I didn’t feel the effect of the alcohol, |
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but her eyes gave me a warm glow, |
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I was swallowed by them, |
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as she swallowed the green liquid. |
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I couldn’t get enough. |
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We did it again and again. |
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Rinse, then repeat. |
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As needed. |
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Well, we were fabric for a drama bass night |
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we were about to bow about four |
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Just getting our coats, when we were |
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Tim getting some sorts of trouble |
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with the coat room attendant, he lost his ticket |
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She said "we'd have to wait until the end to get the coat |
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So we had to sit outside |
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by the meat market, in the freezing cold |
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At least wear our coats |
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Until 8, when it was finally over |
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Tim's was only coat hanging around in the middle of this desert |
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And then Tim, put his hand, in his jeans' pocket |
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and pulls out a sweat rubbish ruffled ticket |
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saying "I had it all along" |
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Doug, saw this, he just screws his hands up into his face |
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forces them to his side |
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shaking, grating his teeth, groaning |
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moving off slowly, muttering "fuuuuuuuu(ck)" |
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Oh no, my number will be on her phone. |
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They’ll know. |
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I need to get round there and delete the calls. |
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So it |
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Out of the strong, came forth sweetness. |
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It says that on the tins of Lyle’s Golden Syrup. |
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Have you ever noticed that? |
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It has a picture of a lion, dead, |
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surrounded by bees, buzzing around, |
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and feasting on the lion’s innards. |
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It is from a Biblical story, |
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someone was going somewhere, |
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saw the lion dead in the sunshine, |
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and carried on. |
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On his way back, |
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the bees had started to form a hive within the lion, |
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and were creating honey. |
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Hence out of the strong... |
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I have enough here to join her, to join the lion. |
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I can’t walk around the block once more, again. |
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I’ve been doing that for years, and I have never escaped. |
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I don’t even know why I’m doing it. |
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I’m going nowhere, like those snails, except out the window. |
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The streets are full of mercenary eyes. |
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Veins full of evil serum. |
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90 degrees from window. |
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Right down to its gables. |
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You've been listening to Late Night Tales |
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Music and stories worth staying up for. |
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