Monthly Archives: April 2017

Odd worship

Previously posted in part, entitled “there’s something about watching”.

Smoke fug hugs him, tugs at him, its fingers linger in threadbare cardigans, as he shuffles the scuffed trail across the room. Burnt toast and mug of tea to find space amongst cigarette cemetery, and the death rattle of countless martyred ballpoints choking their last dreams and declarations over stained sheaf.

This desk is wombed, cocooned in a wall cavity, plasterboard removed, wood frame remains and then just honest brick. Honest brick honeycombed. Twenty four seven he is drone. His glasses removed, red-ringed eyes rubbed raw, bloodshot, mind half-cocked, semi-detached. Assimilated in his chair. To watch her through the wall, her, in there.

Outside is bitter cold and just light, white under frost and hazed through fog. People move about on this Tuesday, this work day, to offices and factories, to nine to five. This, his inside, is nine to nine to nine to nine  all-time. ‘Career choice’ (with air fingers and in reverse order): philosopher, detective, deity.

For her it is admiration, worship perhaps, to be creation, moulded melded bolted welded both organic and utterly man-made. 
Not a job but a calling, to have them falling, head over heels over her, over each other, desperate to please, to be the perfect lover. For their whispered words and bowed heads to wash against her sure as against the shore, leave her unpierced, but different from before.

She is risen, raising in sheets, like breezes blown in sails to fill to full flow and find steady rise to gale. Footprints on the floorboards, that creak and ease to carry too towards, to doors, to wash nocturne flaws. For it is here alone that she is her, alone.

He sits with headphones, chin in hand in God’s swivel-throne. Ignores digits and dials, the pinhole the way to watch crocodile smiles. Instead he rifles, fingers idle or bayonets to probe, to send half-written notes and doodled motes drifting to the floor.

Undercover, covert on his desk, hidden ‘neath scribbles disguised as mess, a long-forgotten promise from his Miss, that this is his, this, his odd worship.