Too late again. Finally switched off for the night. FIFA 15 for 3 hours followed Captain America, washed down with John Smith’s. Bliss.
Here is a poem. This is the second part in another serialised poem separate from the PM’s monologue.
Part Two (b)
The once-proud-oak doors
of my mind palace swing open,
muttering under the strain of serving their
purpose. I step through into
a cream corridor. Cream
walls, carpets of cream,
cream skirting boards coloured cream.
Despite the carpeted floors,
the rubber soles of my trainers
echo against every surface.
Every ten feet or so there hangs
a pine picture frame on the wall.
There seem to be faces in the paintings
but their familiarity is just out of
reach. I keep walking past each one
towards the end of the corridor.
I must have taken 100 steps
yet am no closer.
At the end of the corridor is a chair.
On the chair sits a can of Dr Pepper.
Ice cold. I can hear the condensation
edge down the can, a torrent of noise
flooding the corridor.
I start to run, blink twice and I am there,
with the beverage in my hand. The first way point
in my mind palace.
I know what this is in my hand yet, again,
there is something unrecognisable about it.