The kindly night has taken in this body, pestered as it is with drink. A radio is playing out in the street, and the brain in the body is beginning to think of Buster Keaton jumping through a window, or riding the side-rods of a train. His face unchanged by decades’ grim duty. His famous hat doffed between the wars.
After a day spent attempting to impress those good-looking girls who were not impressed I would retreat into the company of boys and drink, and on one such night, sitting on a friend’s bed blowing smoke at giant moths driven mad with the light, I gulped down a pint of cognac, and by the fourth or fifth time that I fell off my bike in the dark, I truly believed that I had, at last, grasped the meaning of the word sublimation.
Early enough to hear the light whispering like a lover to the dawn I cross the street, evading Messalina’s grip, and find the pavement is already sick with pigeons, going at each other over scraps of bread scattered at the feet of Christ (possibly) who looks as though he hasn’t slept since all that Gethsemane business. And holding, like a sheriff’s badge his can of Special Brew, he stumbles away, begging the air’s forgiveness.