Dearhearted dirt.

No drink. No bread. Jesus.
Cold wretched downhill jaunt. Juggling water, illness and nodding head. Oh yeah I know that and that. Thankyou for the girl. Wilting will. The mind controls the body, the body uses the mind. The concurrent conning. Donning of cloths and feelings that don’t suit. Strange lilac. What I want to do is rest and dream.
come over. We could walk. But rest. Sitting sickness. Blistered feet. Blew puss on hands. Tannin turning stomach “are you OK”.
Like a fly, you could. you COULD get to me. Horse tails flick and flight massages my ears. Jaunt and gaunt. I’ll hollow myself out before I let you get your way. My unnoted unnoticing uncomfort will flame your. Pissing in the wind. In pockets, empty and raw, undirected. Upteenth smile. Lips too high, lips too low. I’ll call, i’ll call i’ll call.
You should get help. I have help. Blood and honesty. Lies and grey and white wash. Family gossip, gifts and sorry. So sorry, but there’s nothing that you can give me. Let’s get serious for a change.

David was the closes and best firm memory the town had to name itself. The bay of David, he resided. A peaceful man. Wistful white curling locks. Hair that danced scraggly in the breeze, that thinned at the top and thickened in turning curatins that draped down. He’d sit bare footed and dangle his rod into the depths below of a summers day. The perfect situation.
Ordinary consitency, without loss or lack of contingency. His brother had been mauled by a fire traumatized bull a few days before – he’d read in the paper. His habitual behaviours structures barely warped. Perhaps he threw a few more rocks that day out by the bay. “Steady Dave” some said, jokingly. He’d never owned a horse to their knowledge so the joke didn’t really land.
He wore always a hesitant to fold yellow rain jacket, white zippered all the way down to his gumboots. Big dark green things they were, and in combination he looked like a slowly ripening banana with the hood done up.
His cottage had two rooms and a number of aesthetic rock gardens. Hammock in summer, ever boiled kettle in winter. Doors never slammed, it was an inviting splash of blue and white wood by the coast. Dressed the same in spite of the season – things were steady for David.
Ritual was a walk. Tea in a tin, scalding and steaming – never spilling a drip. Over green mossy grounds he’d pass strangers with the good graces to look away. His eyes he feared would break,confuse and anger the unprepared. Blue and blistering his gaze had become, living alone like his brother. Looking out over the sea. Endlessly he drew in the glare of natural light and it was magnified in sheen of his eyes. Chaotic and unforgiving as cold morning mildew. A shivver would rise up.
On this day swans had migrated to the central pond. Their evil majesty, regal as angels he thought. White as frost, sketching lazy circles on the water’s surface. Quick ripples reflected their gliding movements. Ease and finesse possessed by no human being.
David wondered how his rock garden was faring. White pebbled, he dreaded the thought of moss taking over as he rounded the central late. A late breakfast was sometimes due to these overlong distractions in his task. The paper. Hot drink no longer searing at his hand, a good gauge of time. He liked toast with the paper, the logistics of feeding and reading worked very well. Except on Tuesday’s when he’d have honey on his toast. Honey and butter, sometimes milk. Sometimes tea. 14 slices. 7 toast. 7 bread.
The high tide mark, bent backed and cross legged is where David would enjoy his second slice. The sun would be up and beaming or behind grey clouds. Spring meant calm waters, cold and clear. Oysters could sometimes be found along the coast line, along with fennel all sorts of washed up debris. He wondered about the changing currents, and mused on the variables of pollution, the seasons and the town’s Location.
Earnest hours would steal away. The creases in his forehead mirrored the receding tide as each wave lessened and lessened. There was no satisfaction in these thoughts of his as he crunched at the only once cooked bread. Wrinkling eyes frowned at the horizon, as he sat right hand out – the soft, wet bits of sand falling between his upturned pianoing hands. Birds would come to watch this display, gulls usually but sometimes others too.

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