Tuesday, February 4

Punk Death Flowerbed

‘PUNK DEATH FLOWERBED,’—just four words that have been, with no reason at all, running through my mind incessantly. They play over and over. They have become a meaningless mantra, and thus a wheel-less bicycle. If I could throttle the words, I would, but I haven’t seen a flowerbed in months. It’s winter, it’s hell here.
When I have nothing to write about, I write.
When I have something to write about, I am in a queue somewhere, or taking out the rubbish.
(Next to the rubbish bins lives a young lady, on her lonesome. Most of the time her blinds are drawn down, but sometimes I get to see her busying herself around her flat. In her window is a smoothed yard of tree trunk, barkless and nude.)
When I cry, I find myself staring at various items around my flat and analyising them beyond belief. (You wouldn’t believe me if I described them to you right now. You would simply gasp and leave me alone.) Yesterday I cried so much that I drank brandy for breakfast and then had a headache all day. Brandy is not a nutritious breakfast.
When I have absolutely nothing on my mind, I write.
When I have something on my mind, I be an Am as you find me right now, writing.
I still have a decorative Christmas tree up in here. When my mother saw it, on the third week of January, she was aghast and told me to take it down because to leave it up past the Feast of the Epiphany brings only bad luck. The Christmas tree is still there, all metal and white, and if I shake it, the branches jingle.
‘Open the bruise up and let some of the bruise blood come out to show them.’ Words are bruise blood, I suppose, if I were to philosophise right now, but I shan’t. This rioja is getting to room temperature and all the rain in the sky is coming down the wallpaper paste of God.
When I am at the bottom, I write.
When I am on my way down, I think of things to write but sadness distracts me, and I faint.

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