that stone has a personality

Left without even looking at myself in the mirror, very much preoccupied with my mental state to even consider anybody else’s feelings of what I look like. Shading my soul with my big circle sunglasses. They are my security, like a door is to a cat that has agoraphobia. Walking along the trodden pine trails, the undergrowth is teething with miniature bug lives, they solider on with life like little troopers. If Mr ant penetrated his best mate’s wife he just takes it in his ant stride. He will carry on cutting that leaf or collecting that fly. Rigor mortis has set in so much and is too heavy to carry for him so he cuts of one wing to make it lighter. Nothing is impossible for Mr ant, especially when it involves helping out his own. Warmth is in the air, its static, water trickles over the pebbles; spherical ones, Quasimodo like ones, square ones. The fact that they are all so imperfect makes the sound of trickling water immaculately perfect. Like someone gently blowing on hand made panpipes. I really ought to take of my shades but I don’t even want the wildlife to catch a peak at my watering soul, my miserable face might catch. You can get lost in a miniature world like that. Rubbing my nose, I come across a scab… I didn’t look in that shiny thing, the one that tells us we are not perfect, yet I’m still finding out I’m not, maybe I should have looked in the mirror. I picked up a rock, it was heavy, my arm drooped a little. I glared at it for a while, noticing the moss overgrowing on it, taking it over, that’s he’s life goal I said judgingly. Gawking at it. It had little little tiny stones on it, each one looked individual, I pointed at them giving each a name…Cesar, Hank, Gina, Churchill (that was the biggest smallest one of them all), Regina, Summer, Pippin. All these imperfection made the stone perfect, it wasn’t the best looking stone as they go but it meant something, it had depth, the stone had a personality!! Every deposit on that stone was part of its history and the story telling was endless. This one stone washed away my misery. I lugged the stone all the way home with me, smiling every time I looked down at it. Only I knew what it meant, only I understood that stone. I looked at other stone on the way home, perfectly formed ones. I turned my nose up at them, they don’t hold anything special. Not like MY stone, rock, perfectly imperfect object. I put it on my shelf. That scab on my nose? I left it there until it fell off. It was my story.

that blonde hussy - inpsired by Bukowski - by me.

it happened in a restaurant, a low class restaurant. where all the riff- raff went. It was here that I had my realisation about blonde women, not all of them are the same but I’d say 76% are. i was there because I had free coupons and my gut started eating itself. I had been there for, say, 8 minutes. a blonde woman came and sat opposite me. not direct opposite. a large table then her table were in between us. if im honest I didn’t particularly  notice her. she wasn’t mind-blowingly beautiful, her body was not cared for, compensated with tacky gems and diamonds, skin tight clothing, maybe that once belonged to a baby prostitute. slim but saggy. pleasant breasts. hardly any bare skin on her face, congealed in MAC make-up. eyes that were soul less. blonde hair like a ragdolls, her best asset, she knew it as well as I did. I watched her for 10 more minutes. its all it took to come to the conclusion. she was a hussy. next to her was 2 boys and a girl, no older than 14. they paid no attention to her.  she was desperate. she flicked her blonde hair like it was a weapon. sending out signals. this happened every minute or 2 without fail. tossing it. twirling it . caressing it like it was her favourite lover. she done this all the while catching glances at her underage prey. im not implying she was planning to act upon her impulses. they were her side dishes of the meal. she looked more of the sugar daddy type. she wanted attention to prove she still had it. she was compensating. she picked up her fries and placed them in her mouth. chewing them like she was a naughty kid who had been told to eat her food ‘properly’ and ‘respectfully’. after she swallowed she had a Mona Lisa smile on her wrinkled face. she began licking her salty fingers, one by one, seductively. looking over at the young boys with femininity in her eyes . they took no notice. too busy wrapped up in their own ‘innocent’ lives.

i got up and left. she took no notice of me.