90. the way that the drunks in our lives cook the dinner, then smash us like plates
it's the disappointment that you feel, each time they turn predictably nasty, they forget everything that you don't, of course they can't remember, they were drunk, you feel fearful in anticipation of the violent swing, where you fall from favour at the end of a string, the yo-yo child dependent on drunken sustenance, entangled about their wobbly feet, as they attempt to stamp you out like a cockroach, but mostly they are unashamedly stupid, trip over & end up sleeping in their own nasty vomit, whilst kids hoping for love are forced into eating burnt food, it's like that movie 'whatever happened to baby jane?', where the silver service is lifted by a drunk who had prepared the dish & there's a dead rat underneath, like the woman who was being served that goes screaming from the room, but she can't leave because she is a cripple in a wheelchair, this is what happens inside us, we scream like angry lunatics, but they can't hear us & physically we never seem to leave, even though the food is never healthy, often it is burnt, & they serve it up like a la carte whilst we sit before them starving, we cannot be cared about by the blind drunk, who has enough trouble going to the toilet or putting themselves to bed, you're six years old, perhaps you can do it for them, once the dinner was so burnt that all the sauce had turned black around it, fifty almonds floated in the smudgy grey quagmire, i quietly put the dish onto the coffee table & threw the dogs a few of the dark almonds, suddenly his own plate went smashing through the loungeroom curtain, the plate thrown by the drunken lover who had replaced the drunken parent, it's like holding a glass bubble & squeezing it, they like to see how hard they can handle us until we smash inside, & you can't fight back because you can't hurt a drunk |
