sulk

The afternoon sounds of hyperanimated bruises and explosions from the computergame flatmate. My room is messy, not creative messy-inspiration but dirty socks and pencil sharpenings like eggshells on the carpet. Babies cry outside when you are in a bad mood. You stand on upturned coathangers and spill coffee on the keyboard. Things conspire so even the green man at crossings and free ginsberg compilations can’t make you smile. The computer crashes every second sentence because impatient fingers click too often. The sunshine makes your legs sweat and bras dig into skin, your mouth is cementy and slow. In all likelihood, the computer will break entirely and the words will ping away pinball style, ringing up through the multi-pointed bases of cyberspace and shooting away into obliqueness.