That Ongoing Thing

that ongoing thing the light of the room gloomed by porcelain dolls cherubs figurines bulbous in prancing pose and cigarettes upon cigarettes, crammed together… …a dirty sculpture she said: “i can make my own curry, you know” i know you can i know you start at the base and build flavour steps on flavour… … a tongue numbing explosion “who’s that? in that photo there?” mortification punched me in the guts how could i be so foolish? “that’s your grandfather” damn should have recognized him the ticking of clocks the fuzz of bad reception the stinging of smoke and that sentiment…. perhaps the world could end perhaps the world could begin “you know gran, i don’t ever want to attend any funeral” “well don’t then,” she said simple as that.