Writing: The Twenty First Friday

by Beauchamp Art

I should not bother getting up any more
I can just happily roll around on the floor
Kick up all the dust and press against skirting boards
Make sure I can avoid facing daylight

I’ll take tungsten down my throat every time
Sickly yellow of a perpetual sun
Black out curtains never opened
And the bed is in a state of semi-formality

Duvet placed roughly in the orientation of the pillows
Counter to the bars headboard
Which get kick or pyjamas thrown over
When any thought of clothes is tossed out

Up at six, listened to some radio chatter
Again around ten or eleven
Peruse pictures of people far afield
Then regret the decision immediately

Pick up horrific rum with lemonade mixed in pint glass
Its like drinking sweets
Or my shampoo
I probably enjoy it

But decide going any further than beyond the bedroom
Except to intermittently piss and fetch more water
Is beyond the rational of today
So work my way through a reasonable measure

And power through more documentaries on animals
Laughing and squeaking like a toddler
Tickled pink and past his bed time
And fall asleep until breakfast

Around five in the afternoon
Make an attempt at productivity
Communicate intermittently
Wanting to be unconscious more indefinitely

Still, there’s shit to do
Shit to be had,
Shit to be, well, shit
Headaches to be washed away by several gallons of water

Passing through like a gutter
My gargoyle face still lightly plastered with the pre-pubescent smirk
From merry mammals conducting there apparently awe inspiring lives
Two pints of tea or so later, with toast and boiled eggs

Which were meant to be poached
A few biscuits, some chocolate, and pornography saved from the previous day
Mixed with another overview of familiar faces and body parts
Which seem to be stimulating and somehow more laden with guilt
Than any of the finest filth that can be found