Busting Out All Over

It’s here, for now – sky the colour of hyacinths, crocuses in the grass, heat on the back of your neck and, of course, the obligatory twat with a massive sound system and a love of techno music. Twelve ‘o clock and it’s Radio Wanker. My brother and the Lover of Horses are playing football in the garden. I am cloistered up here, as though I have been walled in and left to die. I can’t complain though, I am having a high old time, smoking and drinking coffee and writing bloody murders. The muse has finally opened her legs for me, the slut.

A bee came in before. One once stung my mother. They are the Columbos of the insect world, they make you think they are all bumbling and affable and then they turn around at the door and POW! They sting you. And then they die. Which is, I suppose, where the analogy ends.

I will sit here until my lover comes home and then he and I, his brother, my brother and the Lover of Horses will all sit down together in the room with too much furniture and we will drink cheap wine and cheaper beer and tell jokes in poor taste until dawn. Or at least until midnight – we’re getting older every day, you know.