It was a pink
pill, or it might have been blue,
swallowed with a
shot of something electric,
and then nothing
for a while until the pretty girl
sitting on the
armchair opposite became a warty hag.
There was no
spinning room, just wavy lines,
exaggerated
furniture and a red rose watching me
from the
ceiling. I heard footsteps, unoccupied shoes
crossing the
shifting floorboards, and a paper bag
flew around like
a carefree dove with time to kill.
The hag’s eyes
drooped, her neck flesh hung
like stretched
dough. I opened my mouth to speak,
interrupted by
walls breathing asthmatically in and out.
The air turned
crimson and then yellow, colours alternating
with each blink
and a dancing bear performed Mr Bojangles.
I felt no fear,
no concern, no surprise, had no idea where I was
but of wanting
to sway and dream in those moments, I had no doubt.
Time undefined
passed and I opened my eyes to a still room,
everything back
to where it had been before the magic pill
and there,
asleep in an armchair opposite, I saw the prettiest angel,
the one missing
from my adventure, there with rose petals at her feet.
And in the
corner of the room, an LP on repeat play, Sammy Davis Jr,
effortless, cool
as I felt at that moment of awakening, easing along,
recapping what I
think I’d done: “He’d jump so high, yes he’d jump so high,
then he’d
lightly touch down.” My last memory of feeling so upbeat.
No comments:
Post a Comment