brand new days (daze)

descending the curved (shell-like) stairs on rickety breath, hungover, a thick & sticky one in the frontal lobe, & into the kitchen with it's late-night midnight-feasting detritus still on the table -so: a baking tray (did we go to that much effort?) littered with greasy crumbs; an open pink leather handbag with secrets in its shadows; an empty glass tumbler (reminiscent of the isle of Oban); chairs askew like some isoceles dance; & plates stacked in the basin waiting for the effort to cleanse them and repair this day - & all thankfully overshadowed by the sweet, citrus smell of freshly cut grass, chlorophyll enriched & sharp as a blade itself (if it can be said that a smell can be blade-like, which in my condition is the way it seems) - the sheer bliss of it goes hand-in-hand, a compatriot, to this wicked day ahead, glorifying the morning & the passions of the night before: the heady tumults & open endings, the neon adulterations - and other details too: the curvilinear separations of an old book spine on a bedside table; the jive of a geeky actor in an elastic body covertly attempting to keep his partner in check (a partner who, it seems to me, is forever attempting to sidle away) . . .