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Nocturnal Pinky
By Dave Migman
Huge woman on the bus, diagonally across, squinty evil eyes regarding me. “I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU.” She screams at Vince. Did he see? Can he really be so oblivious? She’s infatuated with him. She wants to suffocate him with her affection; his beany little head thrust deeply into the huge cavernous cleft of her bosom, his little cheeks red raw against her warty flesh.
Vince turns. His tired eyes ringed by red sores.
“PINK BITS”
I laugh too much but I’ve held it in all the way down Ballyhooley Hill. School kids turn to suss us out, and their eyes are frozen at the sight of El, the ebony prince. Their eyes soften, smiles dart across their faces.
Bus stop on the quays and we’re out of there of into the chill the rising mist rolling off the river, the frost bites my shaven head, makes me feel real.
We are nocturnal creatures, I can’t say I know what day it is. I eat three breakfasts per day, time becomes fuzzy at the edges and as I walk wearily back home I can still hear the forklifts reversing and the tearing of the tape machine as it thumps down the lids of three hundred boxes.
This is the life we have chosen to lead. Pay slips and bank accounts, poke a plastic tag into the slot and draw a little blood out of the hole. 8Am time for a drink, off to the pub. The Slackers stand, united by their bondage to alcohol. Under artificial lights we herald in the dawn - prelude to our night.
Vince laughing sickly into his goblet, sucking up some caffeine infected mess. Off to the toilet to powder his nose with Bruce the Loose. And a woman, a goddess staring across at me. Staring across with midnight eyes and I can feel it, the cold sweat, the yearning.
“Go over.” says Vince, “Go speak to her.”
“Tell her you want to lick her hole.” hawks the Loose.
I slide over there, next to her, casually ordering another drink.
“What’s the story? How about it?” Deranged words come out. Not my words, someone else’s. She ignores me, shifting her languid gaze back to the television that is directly above where I was last standing. I slide from the bar, burning, snort something to the boys, “Lesbian!” they chuckle into their brews of booze.
Blinding sunlight, mid day, old women in fur coats, the crush of the high street, we stagger through glances of disgust and frowning descent from normal people who drink at decent hours.
The cycle is endless. Half daily measures of tedium, stacking, pushing, cranking, ten boxes to a pallet, the tape machine... that fucking tape machine. I hear it as I blunder into my dreams.
- - -
Dave Migman is at war with the angels and the elves. But really he's just a big fairy... or so it was told...
By Dave Migman
Huge woman on the bus, diagonally across, squinty evil eyes regarding me. “I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU.” She screams at Vince. Did he see? Can he really be so oblivious? She’s infatuated with him. She wants to suffocate him with her affection; his beany little head thrust deeply into the huge cavernous cleft of her bosom, his little cheeks red raw against her warty flesh.
Vince turns. His tired eyes ringed by red sores.
“PINK BITS”
I laugh too much but I’ve held it in all the way down Ballyhooley Hill. School kids turn to suss us out, and their eyes are frozen at the sight of El, the ebony prince. Their eyes soften, smiles dart across their faces.
Bus stop on the quays and we’re out of there of into the chill the rising mist rolling off the river, the frost bites my shaven head, makes me feel real.
We are nocturnal creatures, I can’t say I know what day it is. I eat three breakfasts per day, time becomes fuzzy at the edges and as I walk wearily back home I can still hear the forklifts reversing and the tearing of the tape machine as it thumps down the lids of three hundred boxes.
This is the life we have chosen to lead. Pay slips and bank accounts, poke a plastic tag into the slot and draw a little blood out of the hole. 8Am time for a drink, off to the pub. The Slackers stand, united by their bondage to alcohol. Under artificial lights we herald in the dawn - prelude to our night.
Vince laughing sickly into his goblet, sucking up some caffeine infected mess. Off to the toilet to powder his nose with Bruce the Loose. And a woman, a goddess staring across at me. Staring across with midnight eyes and I can feel it, the cold sweat, the yearning.
“Go over.” says Vince, “Go speak to her.”
“Tell her you want to lick her hole.” hawks the Loose.
I slide over there, next to her, casually ordering another drink.
“What’s the story? How about it?” Deranged words come out. Not my words, someone else’s. She ignores me, shifting her languid gaze back to the television that is directly above where I was last standing. I slide from the bar, burning, snort something to the boys, “Lesbian!” they chuckle into their brews of booze.
Blinding sunlight, mid day, old women in fur coats, the crush of the high street, we stagger through glances of disgust and frowning descent from normal people who drink at decent hours.
The cycle is endless. Half daily measures of tedium, stacking, pushing, cranking, ten boxes to a pallet, the tape machine... that fucking tape machine. I hear it as I blunder into my dreams.
- - -
Dave Migman is at war with the angels and the elves. But really he's just a big fairy... or so it was told...
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