Tuche & Automaton

Monday, November 20, 2006

Coins

The hole through which coins drop make the sound of metallic thud, which is not dissimilar to the moment when my head hit the storm drain. I was pushed there by a hand, which gripped my neck in a spasmodic mode of fury and spitting rage.

The clang of ear against the bubble of extra metal. It was so quick that even the air was shocked. It whistled as I flew past.

Once down there, I looked at tiny flecks of gravel-eyes. They looked at me with tears in their eyes. I thought that they might put up their hands to their face. It was surprising to see their eyes. A pleasure. Drips of blood made pools inside pavement shields.

My hair was a comfort as it touched my cheek. It stroked me there for a moment. I did not dare move, even though I heard lorries, cars, milk floats, bicycles, tricycles and scooters. Tiny toddler legs with pram-pushing. She gurgled in delight to see someone at her level. Tiny and without form. Plush and crumpled and small, like a child. My face an empty place wherein others would make their judgements. A scrotum of wrinkled desperation.

When the bus ran over my foot, I welcomed the pain. I could then forget the fact that I had been pushed over. By your hand.

1 Comments:

At 6:54 AM, Blogger Cocaine Jesus said...

i actually felt the bus as it drove over your foot. brutal stuff.

 

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