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Furniture smashed, TV imploded, books and
papers everywhere, a cold draft blowing through a broken pane imperfectly
plugged with a wig that at first I mistake for the head of someone climbing
in. Where is my other shoe? My sock is torn, brown with dried blood. The
wound is deep but at an angle, forming a kind of flap. I pour the last dregs
of Becherovka on it. It should sting but I don't feel it and that is my
problem-an encompassing numbness I try to forget but its absence is like
the death of a loved one, a maddening vacancy where something should be.
Still, I'm giddy, slaphappy hilarity of waking up drunk. The hangover would
have to wait. Maybe it would never come. I look around. There's my shoe!
Lodged in the TV guts. Fuck TV anyway, goddamned brainrot.
~Vegetable Dreams |
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