Means of Transition

August 28, 2010 § Leave a comment

I would rather see I highlighted. When sad I’d rather see it, than Schubert my last desperate resort.

I don’t play anymore. Do you? Strings gather dust when left untouched, and I could meander into an awkwardly meaningful metaphor here, but I won’t. Leave it at that.

It overcame me over coffee. Not the transition, but the realisation of transition. It hit me like a song in the left lung. Who sings with their right?

I’ll write you a postcard.

One with a man in a kilt on a windy day. Or a Betty Boop-alike tucking into haggis.

Last year I was a character in a colder climate, part of ‘Portions for Foxes’, all of that attracted I. Had you not had a flashing sign above your head that read ‘Bad News’, I would have stayed away.

And out of sight.

Change means I am no longer tragically attracted to hurt. Only on occasion, and now I heal like a burns victim on acid. Invertedly.

Have you understood any of the above? Maybe. Slivers. But you certainly didn’t read between the fourth and fifth line, and you certainly




Oh calamity.

I forgave you before you squeezed out a sorry from your dog-eat-eat heart. Meant? Unheartfelt? I don’t know



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