It's not love, it's something much more sinister than that. Something empty, something full. Something half full. Something two thirds full. Something slightly less than half full. That something? A cup. But what was in that cup?
Another cup.
"That's what I thought", said John.
* * * *
John looked out of the window for inspiration. A cloud. Another cloud.
A cloud.
Suddenly, he felt inspired. He would write about a cloud, that had clouds with clouds, and did cloud. Off a cloud's back.
* * * *
John slept with the light on. He slept with the light on and the door open. He slept with the bedroom door open and the front door too. All the windows were open. The floor was thin.
The floor was decaying. The walls were disappearing. The roof wasn't there, the night sky was in full view and the heavens opened and the rain came. John slept outside.
"Funny", said John, looking back. "I only wanted a pack of fags."
* * * *
John looked at his poem, sighed, and thought. He thought until his brain hurt and his fingers stuck together. He may have lived in a pond, but did he really? Did he really live in this pond? Did he really spend his time in the pond, sleeping, eating and beating (himself off)? Was he there, or was something else at work, something altogether deeper?
No, he lived in the pond.
* * * *
John walked behind the bush, (Kate Bush) and hid. He hid, he hit 'z', he went prone, he strafed, he jumped, he pressed 7 and withdrew his rocket launcher.
He fired a rocket at the cake shop. He fired another. Limbs, blood, glass, chocolate eclairs.
John giggled.
* * * *
This wasn’t what John wanted. He didn’t need it. Heck, he didn’t deserve it. So he’d hit a couple of old ladies. The light was flashing amber, he didn’t have to wait, did he?
Sitting in the police station John thought about ‘nam. The sound of helicopters creeping above. The smell of death. The taste of chocolate éclairs. Yum yum!
* * * *
Having no weapons wouldn't discourage him. Having no hands wouldn't dull his spirits. Losing his legs wouldn't stop him. A lack of vision wouldn't affect him. No sight is a get out clause for losers anyway.
He'd roll his way there, and John would have his revenge.
* * * *
John's patience was wearing thin. Those around him surrounded him, suffocated him, shut him off, hurt him, embarrased him, surrounded him, suffocated him. Bummed him.
The end.
