by John Hunter
Humming is what I hear in the corner of the house when I am
here on a humid night that has cooled into the early morning,
with mist probably surrounding the house.
I cut my nostril with my nail, like an idiot. I hear a bicycle in
my head.
I get up. I tire.
I look down and am relieved to find,
The water in the ice tray has mostly frozen.
I am drinking so fast. Sirens rage nearby, asking ‘where?’ and
‘whom?’
I look out and see everything.
The sky is the skin of something, I think (and drink and drink).
I look in, pour another drink.
I need a cigarette because I want one but decide against it.
I scrape the shards of ice out of the ice tray.
I regret what I did yesterday and pour and pour.
I lie. I settle.
I stay slowly in the bed.
Negotiated shade is spread out across the mass of awkward
flesh when the day stains the house and the air that surrounds
the house is smog, not mist.
John is a law student, and a former passionate-boredom philosopher and stand-up comedian. He is from Toronto but lives in England. His epitaph reads ‘live slow, die soon.’ Get to know him better: @kniborhunter
Lead graphic by Jda S.G., photo courtesy of author.
