APAD #14: All Systems Red (Man as Thermometer as Man)

(Notes from Poetcountry #2)

Michael wakes up and stumbles downstairs,
Somewhat (but only somewhat) surprised
to see The Young Poet
and their mutual friend Samantha interlocked -
But not, he thinks, intertwined.
(Although is that right? The Poet would probably know. And then use some weird similies:

"The two of them looked like a pair of sibling puppies
with no concept of incest, cuddling away a Sunday morning.
Samantha's sleeping breaths were the sound of a child creating the universe
and cooing in surprise when mankind turned out alright."

His eyebrows reach skyward as he catches his reflection on the microwave.
He should try this poetry business.)

Michael walks into his kitchen
and cannot help but notice the wooden
(mountain ash, he had been assured) floor
is splattered with a smattering of sick
and there are empty or nearly empty glasses on every available surface,
All accusing him of something awful.
"Well look now" he says to them "You aren't directly my FAULT,
just the end product of my IDEA"
(He's lying, he stole it)

He hears a stirring from the sitting room
As he himself stirs sugar into coffee
So he cusses at the kettle.
"Goddamnit that motherfucker knows I like Samantha.
I'll kill him if the hangover doesn't. Oh god
I hope they didn't do it on my sofa"
(Priorities come slowly to a man in the state that Michael is in)
((And don't come at all to a man in the state the Poet is in))
"I hope they didn't do it at all"

He hears laughter and he burns his tounge
and he hates, and he seethes -

Michael leans forward and opens a window.
10am Winter Morning Air (TM) rushes in
and knocks a sigh out of him.
He feels not entirely unlike a man who has just realised
that his credit card has been stolen
and then the theif has gone and ordered that
big white Talking Heads boxset that he'd been looking at
and lusting after
but decided he could not afford this month.

Michael does not think about Samntha's eyes as he drinks his coffee.
Nope.
Not even a bit.
Not even for a second.

Well. Maybe a little.
"Fuck"

He turns around to see Samantha looking all
lost-lamb-meets-giddy-teenage-girl-meets-too-much-tequila-twelve-hours-ago,
standing like a statue to his favourite kind of beauty
that someone kindly erected in his kitchen whilst he wasn't looking.

(She doesn't mean to but) she purrs:
"Coffee too hot?"

[End. You might want to go back and reread Boxticking before this (espescially as Boxticking has been edited a bit to fit with this one). I'm less sure about these now but I expect I'll come back to it again next time I've nothing real-world to write about. Written whilst listening to: Wilco. Edited whilst listening to: 2007 - The Year Punk Broke (My Heart) by Los Campesinos!]

APAD #11: Boxticking

(Notes from Poetcountry #1)

You asked if I remembered that time you caught salmonella
from the eggwhite in those homemade Chicken McNuggets
that Polly brought to my Election Results Watching Party in '04

I am pretty sure none of that ever happened so I don't say anything,
and continue poking random butons on the broken toy keyboard
my older brother got me for my birthday last week,
until I happen upon a particularly abrasive series of "notes".

"It sounds like your ex-girlfriend's band" I laugh.
"It wasn't a band" you snap "It was a perfomance project"
I stick my tounge as far into my left cheek as it'll go
and stare you straight in the eyes.

You correct yourself:
"Not that I care anymore..." A long pause.
"Anyway, I'm bored. What are we doing this evening?"
I pass on the information that Michael has invited us to his fictional cocktail party.

"... So it's not a real party?"
I explain that all the cocktails sered will be taken from fictional sources.
Resultingly some of them are incredibly dangerous and, more importantly, digusting.
"Much like some of the people drinking them" you add.

***

Dangeroulsy drunk on the Inverse Terrorism they'd shared,
They stumbled home through the snow
and had satisfactory-if-slightly-dull sex on the sofa
in front of CNN.

"The economy's still fucked then" Cath said.
"Did you REALLYget salmonella?" Jeff asked.
"Yes. I forgot that you didn't know me then." she replied.
"I did. We'd been friends for two years at that point."
"Well..."

[End. God knows, just some nonsense. TOMORROW's will be good. Her ex-girlfriend is the girl from The Young Poet Meets a Fan, obvs. (Lookitme, building a universe) Oh, the Terrorism is my favourite fictional cocktail and comes from Pictures for Sad Children. The Inverse Terrorism then is a drop of tequila in a pint of Bailey's. It does not need pointing out that a Fictional-Cocktails party would be a TERRIBLE idea. Written whilst watching Persepolis. Not edited.]