Random Prose (1)

The Glass Wiper

Lois wiped glass after glass after glass. She was sick of glasses and frankly she wouldn’t care if she never saw another bloody glass in her life. It never worried Bon-Bon who’s shining face seemed to glow more and more as he went about the kitchen singing the old blues songs of his ancestors. His favourite was one he himself wrote new words for about a yellow breasted bird who lived in the cotton fields and changed colour in the evening when the pickers went home. She turned crimson and flew alongside their hot heavy bodies.
“That bird really helps me get home of an evening” they told of how old Tom Buck used to say “She urges me on my way. She sings over my head like an angel choir.”

“I should have been a poet Lois girl. You know that? I could set my poems to music and record those songs that will lift the souls of all those glass wipers who can’t get no songs.

The world is full of glass wipers but no matter how hard they wipe they don’t see the light coming through. They only see the dark. You’re different though Lois girl. You see the songbird in those glasses.

Words: (Bird Help Dark Glow Singing Glass Poet)

A Night Watchman

She had red hair, not just any red but a deep burning copper which fell across her shoulders. He thought her body was one of nature’s exquisite creations: flexible, slim, forever bending backwards and forwards, always moving. Sam watched her night after night.

He would catch the 6.15 train and wait until the curtain had gone up and there was always a few seconds lull when the stage door keeper left his desk and he would slip in unnoticed and walk purposefully along the corridor as if he knew exactly where he was going. No one ever challenged him. He had become a familiar face. They thought he was a stagehand as he stood silently in the wings watching her. He knew the story by heart now.

Then just before the play ended he would slip away past the doorman calling out “Goodnight” and push open the stage door catching his breath in the night air. He would never be able to get close to her he told himself. On the other hand, just maybe one day he could and his mind began to weave fantasies about possession.

Words: (Train Red Body Play Nature Story Night )

The Second Floor

 The Choral Symphony, yes that was it, Beethoven’s Choral Symphony No. 9 coming through the open window in the back street. It stirred the memory. He hadn’t heard it in years. Odd, no more than odd, that he should hear it this very day of all days. But it had to be pure chance. A coincidence. He paused by a shop and re-read the letter. Take the fourth turning on the right and walk to the end, cross over the road and it will be straight infront of you. It was a clammy day, humid and stuffy and strangely silent. He kept on walking and came to a grocery store where a small, plump man with a bald head running with sweat was sitting at an outside table spreading butter on a large slice of bread. He looked up and nodded. “Dejeuner” “Lunch”. He unwrapped some cheese and sliced a section. It looked like Camembert. He thought about stopping and asking for confirmation he was going in the right direction but he didn’t want to make himself known.

He came to a kind of cross road although there was no traffic. Just an intersection but there it was ahead of him. He knew he had arrived. He felt a sudden lowering of his spirit. What if it was a mistake. What if he should never have suggested it. What if too much had changed.

The concierge was asleep. He tapped on the glass.

“Numero cinque si’il vous plait”

The man gestured up the stairs and sank into his stupor.

He began the slow ascent to the second floor.


Words: (Bald Choral Butter Memory Spirit Pure Letter)