Will Thompson
Chippy Dinner
...it's a taste of memory.
A Proustian madeleine.
It was a bungled mishmash of sweaty forhead and greasy lips. Six pence worth of solace; sitting in the dirt behind the galvanized picket fence, fingering chips from a polystyrene cone.
Vinegar playing nuisance with my nostrils.
For a while i gambled with the idea of crossing the train tracks, jumoing the banks of the River Leen, and entering 'a whole new world. Never caring, never burdened with apprehension. It's Pure Imagination, the elemental wonders of stomping new turf, new ground, new newness. the emblam of youth, the fecal shoe chauffeur.
Expressing my inexpressible memory will always be hollow. 'It's idel to fault a net for having holes, my encyclopedia notes'
'...I'm a spiteful man.' I hav bad skin. I like to gamble. I'm inescapably exhausted. I live in the fear of the unknown, of the corridoor, the corner from which I may not return. Chips no longer taste the same.
I'm stuck in a torrent of futures. Everything is speculative, everything is chance - I'm not sure I do like to gamble - not like this.
But I want more time. Imet a friend at the park and we rode a swan shaped pedalo, floating together through a deluge of little ripples. The silence broken by the crusty grind of the rusty metal shaft, as I become a seasick sailor.
Bobbing along with my lifebuoy.
