Death Again

unken in the haze of habit, all is not right. When urinating into toilet bowls, a creeping unease calls me back into the act and, forcing on me an awareness, I fear I have found abandon in habit and am in fact pissing on a floor. But it is not so. The waters collide as should be. The deal is done and I return unshamed.

Returning home taking the left onto a footpath pulling open a slide-door, it occurs to me that this is not my house. And the fear of being caught - a neighbour's head peering bewildered from a doorway - strikes at me from the idle anxiety bubbling below.

It awaits me, this fall, I can feel it. An unforced error destroying the steady accumulated play I've been laying. And I too await it.

It is the search for the anguish that means anything at all. Fucked on past thoughts I stay sober and work. The need for separation is immense and the people disposable, as is every thing you thought you had and would forever hold. Preservation is the accidental by-product of a need to destroy. I write it so it must be true.

And again after dark as I step outside and smoke and breathing uncomfortably and dizzy I find a wall to rest against and wonder if this is death again and know it is not so. I turn down the hallway and into the room and sitting down at the desk I think: All is not right. Lord, let it never be right.