A draft for a drafty day

Yep another draft. Typically wrote it a while ago, based on a time even longer ago, then re-looked at it over the summer, sat on it, let it ferment for a bit and now here it is, in audio draft from anyway.

Montage

   

You wake up. 

You walk into the bathroom.

You’re wondering what’s happened to your mate.

Your best mate.

What’s changed?

You aint seen him in days.

You look in the mirror and wonder

What’s happened to your face.

What’s changed?

You aint shaved in days.

Another line in your forehead appears.

The gears in your imagination

Begin to grind

The light in your mind flickers and

The film reels begin to rotate

Que motage.

ColdPlay plays.

Your mate and his girl.

Arm in arm walks in the park kicking up leaves.

Feeding ducks in the pond.

Trips to the sea.

Trips to art galleies.

Joint shopping trips to Gap and H&M

His and hers hers and his

Sharing friends over drinks

Mates are now friends freinds are now ours ours aint his, ours aint you

Dinner parties!

Dinner parties using recipes taken from celebrity chefs

Expensive A4 hardback conveniently rests on the clinically clean kitchen surface

Strategically placed to make it look like it wasn’t placed to imply taste

Sunday afternoons in gastro pubs

Or in starbucks

Drinking from huge coffee mugs held with two hands then taking selfies

Cheesy trinkets and cutlery

Amalgamating diaries

Middle ground cd’s

Middle ground dvds

Middle ground being

Feeling like carpet under your feet

Hiding the cold hard damp scarred floor boards underneath

Where skeletons of single x friends lie recluse

For choosing to refuse to wear shoes in place of trainers

In order to gain entry into cheesy venues

Continuing to smoke week

Consume lager watch football and smash keebabs

Listening hip hop and underground dance music

Still rebelling against chart music

Still laughing when farting

Still openly honest about porn use

Still treading water in an ocean of self-loathing where the

Only humane feeling that remains is the pain from getting salt in the wounds

Still complaining about the day to day pursuit of pay

and feeling unfulfilled, that grates like an

itch you can never quite reach between the shoulder blades.

Lacking the kind of companion that will scratch it and relieve it.

Then embrace you for all your insecurities, idiosyncrasies and imperfections,

and tell you that it will all be ok.

Chuckling in your ear, stroking your hair, kissing you on the cheek then walking away, leaving her sweet perfume in the airspace

as you look in the mirror, see your face, think of her and think shit,

lifes alright.

Instead you see your face

Your muggy unshaven face

And you think of your mate

And you hope the prick is happy.