A tree has fallen across the track up to the farmhouse. Which, a sign says is 1.7km away. Why when we recognise imperial has someone used metric?
Water from a stream is now redirected by the tree trunk and branches flowing downwards flooding the track.
I wade through it muttering the lyrics to a song as I know no lines of poetry. Laughing as my wellies sink into mud. Wasn’t there a French president who liked to wade in streams reciting lines of poetry aloud. A lover of whores, champagne and oysters. And that little bird he consumed in a ritual with his skull covered by a square of velvet cloth, the last beats of the ortolan’s heart and final breath, was it in this once powerful man’s mouth or that bowl on the table.
Emotional calling breaks the silence disturbing the birds on the frozen lake. How far removed do you want me to be? The back pain is neither muscular or skeletal though it is as yet undiagnosed perhaps it’s an ongoing evolving illness. Ask a renal expert what they think.
Did you know how much bad dreams stank? Why do you think I have so many baths?
Over lunch you tell me to sit up straight, stop hunching my shoulders and for god’s sake please use my napkin to remove the wine corners from my mouth. And I tell you my little lovecat there is no cure anymore. In that drunken voice that slurs so disgustingly in equality as my foull and crude language I suggest you open your beautiful legs and let me in as sensate pleasures don’t last forever. The Bandol, or the Lalande de Pomerol blasts my mind and I bend over the edge of the table and downward to touch your ankle, to grasp the heel of your shoe and remove it.
Fuck it, it was La Conseillante. And your Tibetan prayer beads. Lying on the floor spewing out garbled free associating poetry. Oh your mind. Oh! Your legs.
Forgive me, forgive me. Yet again.