– To be read aloud –
I raise my fingers to my brow to tug the threads of hair to the left where they habitually sit.
All the while a 60hz hum sits silently behind the fridge,
The floorboards move under my hardened souls and,
I don’t hear the creak,
Nor the squeak of the third generation of 18 new-born’s below.
I mount my bicycle with its familiar rust,
Moving my legs unknowingly in a direction to a destination somebody else chose.
Rubber and metal caress at speed, tyre pushed into the cavities of the concrete as it exhales.
Asphalt penetrates the pores of my skin as breath leaves my body.
The sting enters my eyes and colours fade to grey as the inner monologue pauses for a moment, like a comma in the wrong place.
The numberplate shines equally as bright as the bird’s nest,
Built with care like those who dwell below my boards,
The drivers spit sprayed across the shores of my face feels like the wet lace of the curtain that clings to my bedroom window.
The second hand clutches the clock as the stands of my hair, soaked in red, are swept to the left, habitually and in shock.
I am less aware of which words left my mouth than the movement they made in my lips and tongue.
Aware of all things at once, my thoughts bounce around my body as it confronts the outside.
At home, the hum slowly dims to silence and the exhaustion of my awareness lulls me to sleep.
The next morning my thoughts rest uniquely on how to repeat the unconscious procedures ahead of me, in utopic mundanity.
Jye O'Sullivan 