You cut the socks off your feet because you can’t do this any more. You don’t want your toes to be muffled, your ankles stifled. You walk out onto the street, leaving the door ajar, leaving your housemate gaping with toast falling out of their mouth and you follow the footpath. The sun kisses the back of your neck to tell you to keep going. Little granules of asphalt prick the bottom of your feet but it doesn’t really hurt that much, actually it feels kind of good. By the time you reach the point of the city where the footpaths are intermittent, the soles of your feet are cut up and weeping, but you don’t mind, you just keep on walking. These are the coals you have to walk over, and honestly it’s just not that bad. By the time there are no footpaths, the soles of your feet are numb and the tops of your feet are feeling the breeze and kissing the sun back. When you walk into a thick patch of trees, you know you will not be walking back. You take off each item of clothing and carefully fold it, leave the small pile under a tree either as an offering or a purge – you’re not entirely sure. Your feet make the twigs and crisp leaves crackle as you plunge in. This is what it feels like – plunging, or diving, submerging. We didn’t crawl onto dry land just to build freeways.
Bass in my guts like a cat in a sack
The air thick with sweet sharp smoke
Pot and cloves and pine
There’s a girl with a dark doily top
And dip-dyed blonde hair
Who looks so much like her up there, on top of the world
I wonder if whoever is casting this catastrophe
Runs out of new faces now and then
Doubles up here and there
Tosses the same shapes across the globe
Thinking that nobody will ever notice
Well, I did.
And I’m telling you right now, I’ll be writing to complain.