About Me
- Troy Francis Antonino Da Costa
- "Life is supposed to be difficult," he said taking a long swig for his ornate hip flask, "It’s the struggle against the infinite violence of a universe.” I smiled, perhaps he was right or perhaps he was just an asshole making it up as he went along, but the gravity of his remark struck me unexpectedly. The default to life was indeed struggle, for all life not just intelligent life; why would I be exempt. I didn’t care for the man and his insidious gloat of pomposity. Nothing is absolute, nothing certain, which makes the possibilities boundless. The joy of life is making it from one moment to the next through adversity and earning the things the things people say about you when you arrive at your freshly dug grave carried by those you hold dearest.
Tuesday, 15 September 2015
Thursday, 3 September 2015
Nightly Creatures
Shouting is the only way we hear each other over the
distance that has come between us. The argument ends in the same way; her arms
crossed, tears in eyes and me slamming the door on my way to Saintly Stan’s Bar n’
Grill.
Glass to my lips like a kiss once known, I drink. Half a
bottle in he cuts me off, the bastard; I pay the tab and amble away. The
streets are a wet night of passion; huddled figures dance, as the rain soaks
their bones, from one end to the next.
I make for the comforting shelter of an all-night liquor
store. The clerk barely acknowledges my existence but hands over a bottle of
cheap vodka.
I stumble out, booze in hand, into some bad tempered youths,
one takes exception and pulls a crooked blade on me, grinning I tell him
where to stick it. His friends hold him back; I ready the bottle like a club, nothing would be more pleasing than beating this anal stain out of my
misery.
Why did she ever have to meet such a creature as I?
Disappointingly, they clear off. I find a lonely bus bench and begin
the serious business of drinking. Halfway through a skirt too short for this
weather starts asking me questions I have no answers too. She hands me a bag of
white powder and I wave her off, but not before she takes my whole wallet as
payment.
I do the coke. It all but fucks me up in a whizzing tantrum
that batters the inside of my head. Finally it overwhelms me, I throw up,
mostly on the pavement. It all goes black.
When I come to it’s on the cold vinyl of my kitchen
floor. My vision clears, she’s lying motionless
in a pool of her own blood, brains and skull. The hangover numbs the shock and
dulls my reaction.
Still if I ever loved her I would be holding her and
screaming in agony, instead I dial 999 and fall heavily into my favourite chair
and wait. Why did she ever have to meet such a creature as I?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)