The Devil is a Flower Plucked from a Cloud

There is nothing easy about a Sunday morning. A gnarled rope’s wind around waking: scuzzy, dull, monotonous nightmares still dangling their drugged lines. Uncaring and not wishing to dance. When’s gone. Where’s not here. A cool couple of smokes to shake the rot and rust off. A sacrificial shoestring. Shade and repose. Squeamish. Indisposed. There, calamitous as ever, a rift in nature’s hold. Get up. Get over it. Be worthwhile. Squint through shards of slatted sun and be alive. A lift down, and the crust gets scraped, off the subject, in the metonymy off all objects, abject. Asleep’s answers are the braille of hindsight’s sluggish questions. Do not pass Stop. Do not give away any change. There are difficulties unimaginable on a Sunday morning. A room’s subtle trap to escape. Another panicky attempt at being away. Tuned to a blind spot, memory’s blank, without a mind to inhabit. The dizzy shakes panhandling guesses with broken vases on the urine-caked sidewalk. Nothing is easy about a Sunday morning. A windowless galley kitchen. Shrouded. Drained. Hollow. Like the skeletal remains of a ruined Oldsmobile, the tape deck gone off to a better place. Hearing is just a whisper above some droll mechanical hum. Lob that bottle over here. It gets dark in the early places. A minute’s wide spaces crushed to a bitter pass. Microwaved ambition, squashed to this. Never ready. All’s unwell. To the toilet’s wretched tune. Another lost whatever. Repaired to any barroom close enough to do. Coddled in a haze of delirium and awe. Can’t even muster the chutzpah or the equilibrium to wash a single dish. A bag of soft stuff never tossed. There are all sorts of impossibilities sewn into the hem of a Sunday morning. Distress manages the account of it. Restless and unassured. There’s trembling horror in the ice machine. There’s an H-bomb in the fridge. A “Do Not Disturb” sign bolted to better ideas. No greener grass over anywhere. Only concrete. Only wine gnats and lazy flies. The lees and suds of it all, buried, burrowed deep in a ratty bunker. Spasms and spiders to scratch away like discounted prayers as somewhat-not-at-attention’s glass spills on a torn lampshade. Absolutely nothing is easy about a Sunday morning. Make up the details. Pretend about the bigger deals. Sound’s not so dependable for what’s to say. Uncharted belief. There is nothing at all easy about a Sunday morning. Dry lips smack blistered over a scaly tongue. Sweetness does not follow. The rainbows have lost their arc. The phone’s lost its marbles and deserted.. Blaring car alarms kill what’s left of hope. Wet socks all full of holes and prickles. Shredded ties strangling the doorknob. Shoes in the oven. Nobody is behaving sensibly. Responsibility’s left for sober shores. Nobody’s smiling back. Sunday mornings are for suckers. Coffee’s lure while vomit’s stench still resides in the tiles. There is never enough toilet paper. Hysterical over soggy cereal. No more mixers. Just more holes punched in the drywall. More cigarette burns. More missing buttons. More coughing fits. More groans. More unrecoverable guesses left pouting in the starless junkyard of the moon’s fatalities. Sunday mornings? Fuck Sunday mornings.