roxanne

When I look at my hands, sometimes the fingers are short and stumpy, while other times the fingers are long and slender. I don't hear or see anybody. I believe nothing.

I handwash everything. My clothing has been stagnating overnight. Marinating. I feel like algae. I want one of those bath mats made of moss. My collection of black mould is enough to rival even the dirtiest and dankest, most horrid. Enough to kill my moss.
I'm overflowing with the joys of Spring. I can't make my mind up about anything. I find opposites, do or don't. There is no inbetween. Do I salivate or is my mouth left dry at the thought of the glass in the lens? This is a bad choice. I am about as useful as a book about Jack the Ripper that isn't pointing the finger at James bleedin' Maybrick. I am even less use than that. I lay in bed last night thinking about alcohol. I told myself to drink again. Then I stubbed my toe on a clothing rail. My clumsiness is a bad start to another year. Told myself to stay inside, told myself to go outside. I keep lying to myself. Keep on telling myself. Keep scolding myself, keep on smiling, nodding, this is correct.

On period. Got the fears again. At the fore, on the floor. Single pane glass, reeling. Dan yells, "Tell me what you want to eat!" and I want to slice him up into shreds, feed him into a plug socket and watch the sparks fly. Ought not to grind the teeth too much. Cutting little holes into my neck. It's a mess. The human sound of drilling and muffled vocal tones. I can hear mess, all mess. I can't react to anything. Unacceptable behavior. Call this shit cabin fever. Cabin fucking fever. Ha! Backward. Behind. The face that ever turns away. The direction is null. Crunching of pebbles beneath the heel, tapping upon the window and whispering through the letter box, "I've forgotten my key." But nobody is ever home. Queues of you, lined up in a row. All tapping upon the glass. Can't help but find it funny. Cabin fucking fever, my ass! Sucks to be in the broad daylight, smattering of a cloud. Twin seats sporting cheshire cat smiles, and I don't know which I really see.

A little girl called me "the second coming" in my dream last night, and she didn't mean the second coming of "Jesus". (Mayhap she meant the Devil?)

I was at an amusement arcade, leaning backwards - with my arms outstretched before me, as though I was dangling from a balcony, gripping the bars that lined a giant skating rink or bowling alley. I was sporting a male's tailored pitch black suit and my arms had contained within them a male, facing me, also donning a similar pitch black tailored suit.

There was a two-to-three tier raised cafe area at my back.
My grandmother was present and she was blind, along with another blind old woman (whom I believe had introduced herself as somebody who'd previously tailored clothing for stage actors) and the other woman was in the process of serving food or drinks to my mother. My mother was disgruntled because this woman was getting in her way. The old woman said, apologetically, as if to explain her clumsiness, "I'm always sewing in the dark." Causing my grandmother to perk up, responding with, "Me too!"

The little girl (who had spent the entire afternoon/dream attempting to challenge me to some kind of dangerous arcade game duel that would inevitably result in my death - involving a high flying something-or-other that threatened to land on my sorry head!) then walked on past, behind me, prodding at my back, pushing me closer to the man, so we melded as one - acquiring a new design of pitch black collar/shoulder piece that revealed the man's collarbone and neck in the process, as the child squawked up at me: "My mother always warned me that you were the second coming!" (The sense being that her mother and my mother were likely in cahoots.)
But the man paid no heed to the goings-on around us as he breathed words into my mouth between kisses. The sight of the flesh beneath his left ear drove me crazy.
My breathing was stifled and I woke in a frenzy.

Next, I dreamt that the car I was driving (on autopilot, always on autopilot) left me lost in Liverpool, and by some good fortune it parked itself directly beside a mechanics/garage - on a busy Saturday night. A stray dog crept toward me, lit by a dim, orange-toned streetlamp. Onlookers tutted and shook their heads in disgust, possibly assuming that this dog belonged to me. (Maybe they believed that my auto-mobile (ha!) had caused his injuries?)

Beneath a bare tree, I crouched to examine his wounds. The right side of his neck was gouged open and protruding from the wound were internal tubes, bloody, shining and undulating. I scooped him up into my arms and held him close as I walked back toward the center of the town, planting kisses upon his forehead with each step. I soon arrived at a large bus station. There was a triangular shaped glass encased bar/cafe that was scattered sporadically with mischievous drunks, all whispering, necking and fondling. I proceeded to search for an open counter to purchase bus tickets, but there were fabric shutters pulled down on them all. Behind one of the blinds I could spy a man sitting with his ankles crossed, watching a small television while chewing on a pen lid.

I then spotted a single hooded public telephone in the center of the wide-spaced-square, so I headed towards it. At this point my dog was gone. I was the only person requiring a payphone. I couldn't decide who to call or think of what to say to them if I did muster the courage to call. It all seemed so stupid. I rummaged about in my bag for a pen to write notes so I could behave accordingly and act like it was perfectly acceptable that my car had, once again, taken it upon itself to desert me. The car had misbehaved and I was taking no responsibility.

At this point there was a queue of people spread out in a straight line behind me. I moved to one side, ushering the man directly behind me to take his call. More and more people continued to appear in the line. I attempted to cut in where a group of boys, between the ages of 18-22 years, pointed out a gap they had made. They then circled around me and began playing with the tassels that dangled from my bag. Everybody else vanished. I span around with raging red eyes and asked them what the fuck they were doing. One of the boys was an old friend from primary school - who was stabbed to death outside of a bar in Huyton when he was only eighteen years of age. But I didn't recognise him. He had little red artificial flowers on plastic vines sticking out from the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled the pen from my hand and asked what I was writing. I told him he ought not to talk to me because I was busy trying to put together my plea. He acted like I was a silly fool, flicking at my hair with his thorny fingers, so I pointed out the flowers in his pocket and asked what kind of fool carries phony flowers about their person. He continued to laugh and poke fun at me, saying that he would just like to take me out for a drink. All of the other boys were mocking while the boy I knew from primary school twirled my mussed up hair around his finger, smiling down at me with his bloodshot blue eyes.
I woke again, frustrated.