Early Morning: A Prose Poem
Saturday Poetry Prompt: what happens in the early hours?
Awful green and purple light as we walk past Oxford’s Gentlemen’s Club — me and my too-shallow breaths, unable to really descend to any feeling — but we’re covering it up with smoke and darkness, venturing out to The Albert, taking in noise that I don’t understand — can’t hear any of the lyrics…
Out with the early morning deaths, feeling like a stepped-on cigarette end now, the shaking begins, so I press myself closer to your warmth.
But you step away. Or I pushed…it could be that too. It’s the middle of the week, and I’ve got nothing to write. All my thinking turned towards this avoidance, crushing the past with swollen eyelids, but I wasn’t really awake. I’m seeing two or three of you now, like looking at a light bulb with an aura.
Clearing the vision. What vision? That time I went on my knees and the time after that and after…I couldn’t find it in me, didn’t know how to react. I was running all that time.
The shadows of buildings are cast in piano-key lines on the sidewalk— we’re stepping on the sharps, leaving the white keys to fend for themselves —
Early mornings are taunts, are whispers, are fucking sadists.
