Talkbox

We stroll, gacked, to the riverfront at 5.45, intent on seeing the sunrise. But the weather app says cloud cover is coming; no god rays for breakfast. Just sitting here in the daybreak is enough, weed oil cigarettes, bare feet, joggers choking by. Cyclists descend the tiny hill in flashing lycra. A group of exercisers shouting countdowns across the way. “We’re just not burning fat as much as we used to, y’know?”; two rogue speedwalkers passing us by.

And then there’s the toy poodle, the sea of white bike lights. The street lamps reflecting slowly less and less on te river.

 

Waiting for a cafe to open.

 

Over the PA: Gorillaz plays. Strange echoes of our final evening sent back to me like taunts. Peel my feet free from socks and Docs, letting my flea bitten ankles breathe. turns out I’m sobbing myself to sleep, hidden watery and alone beneath my scarf. Not a dragon after all.

 

Anxieties of relationships long-passed plaguing the static dust of my mind. It’s like: why the FUCK are u still bothering me?

 

Cigar on the beach, so many junkies here, and this strange guy from Michigan with a backwards cap. Takes me to buy weed in a crumbling hostel where men are sat in small clusters. Half-moon of plastic chairs, a varnished table where 3 then 4 men play cards. A fifth, the manager joins them intermittently, stepping out from the apricot square of his office. “He used to be the maintenance guy,” the blonde boy tells me.

Never got his name but got his fucked-up toenails imprinted in my brain; torn and bruised, whitepurplegrey.

 

Traffic lights here make no sound and I keep forgetting to watch (cross). We meander towards a canal. Here I unfurl the sweaty palm our dealer had deposited my weed into, and sitting on a cement step descending towards the water, I finger-chop enough for a joint.

While we smoke I look across to the stretches of changeling mountains, their colours drifting jade and chartreuse and all the thoughtssoundscolours in between. Clouds kiss the summits from which they bodies cascaded down.

We talk shit.

 

I watch the fish in the stinking water; grey bodies and mouths gulping at the surface.

Morgan Lee SnellComment