poetic recycling.

After 8 months in this job my alarmclock has worn out. I find it lying at the floor one morning, frozen at 0547, stopped and somehow a mash up. I decide to bail work today and install the typewriter closer to my bed, and write it out, but not before I have spend half an hour repairing a alarmclock - a russian brand - that I bought at an openingsale recently to encounter this situation. I find an old battery under the kitchen sink, lick it, and define there should be enough power for at least three days wake up calls.

Its boring. It doesnt work, the dream that was the goal here disappears like popping steamed almonds. My boss is on the phone. 0615.

"I happens way to often" he says, and it gets to me that he is right. I hang up, my moral shredded and my loyalty to the idea of work flatlined. But I care. I relate to my neglect and the indifference.

12 minutes later I am at work. Nothing happens here besides work: The tired greetings, a silent cry, catatonic, we barely communicate.

Home.

I have bought a new alarm clock, a plastic mosque. I now have three alarmclocks up and running. I rented two flicks, "Twister" and "Fresh Meat 3". John Leslie debut directing porn. I have already masturbated three times today.

I fall asleep around eight and wake up at 0411, all the lights on. I turn it out, rewind the porn to a random fuck, watch it for five minutes. I am really too tired, I dont get turned on. I feel like throwing up, the porn...I mean, it is not very subtle, refined: Some fingerfucking, a blowjob or a rim job, then fucking untill someone is being almost strangled in cum. Tired, plainstruck eyes, hate. Industry. Non the less I fall asleep with my dick in the palm of my hand.

Next day, afternoon. Harbour bridge is a killer in the storm. I am wet to the bone, still really tired. I meet her entering a supermarket, which she is leaving with her daughter. We recognize each other instantly allthough we havnt met for more than 10 years. We talk for about five minutes. She is either busy or nervous.

"Who is that strange looking man?" her daughter asks, no answer. Its been years, and years for a reason and we do exactly what we shouldn`t. We set up a date that same night.

I cant remember her name. At the doorphone I dont know what button to ring, I cant remember her fucking name. I leave. Its 1998 and raining.