Brain Dead

Quaintly brain-dead one late evening – too late as I get ready for bed. The night may just be young for a Saturday but it hardly matters for jagged feelings and murky attacks of depression. Can hardly blame it on the weather though – or the person next to me for that matter. Just plain vanilla bout of restive me. The ego pinches and ekes out every failure from crevices of fogging past – words of mine declare unfulfilled promises – but that’s just a forgotten past. So much in sync with the ephemeral change in scale of every other pop song; well it just disappeared as I chose my words – and to cap it all it’s another weekend and a Sunday to boot as I pick up the threads. I really have lost count of weeks in interlude and the only record has disappeared with the last press of Ctrl+S (that’s save document for the computer illiterate) in short too tedious a process for me to unearth. I was walking absent-mindedly past the thin Sunday evening crowd near the usually busy crossing – the flash of colour from the usually horny middle-aged woman’s Tanter sari corresponded with the churning equation in my mind falling into place. Was love really a product of habitual circumstances rather than borne of any piquant immediacy. Damn the darned verbosity! Well – can’t help it dear! It’s in my nature – akin to the not really faux accent that seemingly creeps into my unconscious dialect.

The TV’s a great help! Ooh – the sexy siren with golden chains round her oh so desirable waist turns into a curvy bottle of soda pop – the gorgeous Latina shoots from her honest hips – the snazzy brit anchor espouses the virtues of the well dressed business traveler – all in all – all that I could care the least about! The news channels are at it again – no one really seems to be interested whilst they toil too hard mutilating phrases into wishing clichés – too much like the bottled coke taming the fiery rum in my glass. Barb shoots straight – babe she ain’t – and my babe seems just too immune to my arsenal of charm.

Oh and before I finish – my paper boats were never really blue as the ageing park-street-phile may sing – just as I’m not so brain dead today!