{ scintilla } xanthe + august
Jun 18, 2016 16:26:16 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 18, 2016 16:26:16 GMT -5
A U G U S T B I L O D E A U
{“Fuck ass, bitch,” Ivo screams.
His voice carries above the din.
Look down from the mezzanine, through the crowd. And he’s there -- the stack of coins falling as he reaches for another drink. Silver spins across the table, clinks to a stop a few feet away.
He’s made a full sentence out of just swear words, and
that’s cue enough to leave.
Although --
I’m not sure how I always get stuck with
being clean-up duty, damage control, the person that walks him home while he pukes on my shoes. It’s his kind of talent, I suppose.
{“Fuck ass, bitch” -- the sound echoes,
he sounds like himself drunk. Just more loud, more tired, more pocket change
and metal mouthfuls. He’s spilling most of the drink on himself now, and that’s indication it’s two a.m., too late -- with an aptitude for inebriated punctuality. I peel myself from wallpaper talks,
try to step forward politely.
Some guy is trying to make conversation to me against floral plaster. His words come one at a time, blocks building dialogue. They get knocked over by his tongue and clatter at his feet.
I move away, but
he’s still speaking.
Maybe he was talking to the houseplant all along.
Ripred. I should go get Ivo.
But getting Ivo is the hard part.
He’s kind of shit when he’s losing.
I should go get him last. Collect his stuff first. Maybe pick up a glass of water for the road. To drink, to throw at him -- I guess both are possible.
{I leave the plant conversationalist to re-ensemble his syllables. He talks to the greenery like a poet. So he must be on something weird, something new.
except,
except
two feet in,
there’s someone spread across the staircase.
{Ivo always picks places like these, parties where at least one person has to die. From buzz, accidents, cardiomyopathy. It was the same underneath the blue neon of that bar. It’s the same everywhere, I guess.
It’s not safe to be dead at a party, to be using the steps as a bed, alcohol as the pillowcase.
I mean, routine says it’s a tripping hazard,
or something of the sort.
He’s stirring a bit when I pull him up. And the whole time with his arm around my neck, we’re crashing into the bannister, against the walls, on everything and all the way to every locked door.
His voice carries above the din.
Look down from the mezzanine, through the crowd. And he’s there -- the stack of coins falling as he reaches for another drink. Silver spins across the table, clinks to a stop a few feet away.
“You’re shooter,”
someone calls out.
They’re playing Coins with shot glasses.someone calls out.
Well, career kids are like that, I guess.
He’s made a full sentence out of just swear words, and
that’s cue enough to leave.
Although --
I’m not sure how I always get stuck with
being clean-up duty, damage control, the person that walks him home while he pukes on my shoes. It’s his kind of talent, I suppose.
{“Fuck ass, bitch” -- the sound echoes,
he sounds like himself drunk. Just more loud, more tired, more pocket change
and metal mouthfuls. He’s spilling most of the drink on himself now, and that’s indication it’s two a.m., too late -- with an aptitude for inebriated punctuality. I peel myself from wallpaper talks,
try to step forward politely.
Some guy is trying to make conversation to me against floral plaster. His words come one at a time, blocks building dialogue. They get knocked over by his tongue and clatter at his feet.
I move away, but
he’s still speaking.
Maybe he was talking to the houseplant all along.
They turn clockwise and she goes.
Bounces a coin off the table
and the view is obstructed again.
Bounces a coin off the table
and the view is obstructed again.
Ripred. I should go get Ivo.
But getting Ivo is the hard part.
He’s kind of shit when he’s losing.
I should go get him last. Collect his stuff first. Maybe pick up a glass of water for the road. To drink, to throw at him -- I guess both are possible.
{I leave the plant conversationalist to re-ensemble his syllables. He talks to the greenery like a poet. So he must be on something weird, something new.
The night could be simpler.
I could just get his shit then
get the shit then exit this shit,
I could just get his shit then
get the shit then exit this shit,
except,
except
two feet in,
there’s someone spread across the staircase.
{Ivo always picks places like these, parties where at least one person has to die. From buzz, accidents, cardiomyopathy. It was the same underneath the blue neon of that bar. It’s the same everywhere, I guess.
It’s not safe to be dead at a party, to be using the steps as a bed, alcohol as the pillowcase.
I mean, routine says it’s a tripping hazard,
or something of the sort.
Also, he’s kind of blocking the way.
He’s stirring a bit when I pull him up. And the whole time with his arm around my neck, we’re crashing into the bannister, against the walls, on everything and all the way to every locked door.
I’m not sure how I always get stuck
with clean-up duty.
It’s my kind of talent, I suppose.
with clean-up duty.
It’s my kind of talent, I suppose.
