Mind is tricksy in the morning still littered with dream, wet from the vine. Outside: bird flinching through violescent morning then still still still on branch, staring. Staring at me the me-man all ragged dishevelled. Inside: odorous noticings (scent of grape and sweat) - candle lit to cloak the air.
Too early for wake but slumber gone; struggles in tricksy mind, waited on by guiltful memories - memory just beyond grasp but lying in wait for ragged man-mind's return.
Nicotine stream and in-exhale ex-ingest little white pill for painkill; external bird-song still shrill remains on branch, still a sentry staring, bird view through glass from flat straight on back position lying upon softened soft bed, bird staring at me-man staring back, bird the bad omen in tricksy mind.
Uneasy weightless - waiting - on slept-in bed with candle scent enveloping and slumber distant now, memories returning, taste from the vine mingled now with freshly stale smoke-taste, throat burning scorched and pained but shag smoked chain - lit-up and up in morning: withered lung to match the brain.
Bird still still on branch, staring. Me-man ragged dishevelled stares back in contest, futile hope ridding omen to the sky. Unable in slumber-gone morning to do any other, desperate in attempt: banish mind reminder of stale journey taken from night to morning.
Hanging now in the morning; mind hanging tricksy in the Fear.
Chris Connolly's Every Day I Atrophy is available from the SideCartel through Amazon now.