Tiny Drip of Tea on the Saucer of the Cup in 'The Dead'

As my finger turned to that familiar drip that was cold and slightly off-putting by that point in the conversation, I wanted to leave the saucer and be done with it once and for all. I looked down at my still warm cup and wanted to say sorry to the warmth of tea. I wanted to say, I'm so desperately sorry for wasting your time, my tea. I wanted to shake hands with the delicate porcelain and say, you know, it will be ok.

You replied to me:
- No it will not be fine.
- You can always buy a present to make it up.
- No it will not be put right, I am broken and so is he.

Up and up we soared there in that sitting room/parlour and everyone knew that it would not be fine and that the splash of tea was simply a reminder that the snow was coming. That ice that would cut my lips. Yes, actually cut through the lippy strips that extended inwards in that red glow that you used to pull towards you. I would flop into your arms and lay there. Hearts all glowing and red and wantyou. I can feel your breath there now, where it has left a liver spot now. Where you bit me that time. Where the cut was, a tiny glimpse of grit got in there and you can feel it when you rub your finger across it. I play with it when I'm nervous. Like a bruise. If you push hard enough, it taps on the teeth, slightly blue.

Decreases With Cress and Tarn

She had the pubonic-plague, wither on the stickpin that decreases with cress and tarn. ‘Hoe and stickle such a pickle I’m in’, she said…’and the damn polemarks, a ballbearer’s mock in tattle’…

Mehta Does and Mehta Did

Mehta ate her fill of soda-biscuits Mehta did and Mehta she does the dandiest things with ball-string and bland-pudding and peach cobbler corset-knotted round the mousiest part where the apron-strings cinch the pushcart of her hips, where wee babies and fealties and toes and finger-nubs red as beetroot peek peek-a-boo through the savoury seed of her woman’s-part. Atcham she has these swivel-pin hips what’re made for plopping wee-ones down the drainage-pip, sad Soddy bastard never saw it coming, hit hitting Atcham in the fontanel just below the naval-port where mommy’s catgut kept him well aired and fed.

Mehta wore those sots of slacks what’re made from mutton-hide and bustle-cock, the knee-to-britches as seen on the telex when the men are away poaching kittles and malt-whaler. She has a notion bout the way the wee-ones slide sluicing down the inseam of her pitch-grave. It’s sorry sticky down where the heads crown and the blueblood sops like pot-gravy. On a count of the stink and Quigley its best to take a ball-O-malt to flush the Soddy wee bastards out from the pitch-grave. She Mehta does the dandiest things with ball-string and peach cobbler.

CIE's Teat and a Plinth-carver

The Piker Paddy Paddock tapered a wee Ball-O-Whisky with Declan Wavell, who sold a fife-on-fife to Smith-on-Hyde. At bell-chime the bastard chancy of Salamanca bade a flare foreboding to a mister Hollister J. Bottom not knowing the difference betwixt a CIEs’ teat and a plinth-carver. Ole Piker P. Paddock lifted a Dram-O-Castle and said in cloying, ‘fuck them all, every last bugger of ‘em!’

Curried in Rime and Mallow

Declan Jones soaked his toe-corns in Epsom salts whooping a wee abrasive to curb Speyside poor dogsbodydog poked with spitcane and churn all this kafuffle and oblation from seed to seed ran Declan Jones toe-pads curried in rime and mallow stop there a wee moment master-none an adman’s stub to feather the ticker’s-palsy allow me I beg to relieve you of pox and whooping dear man dropped the slaving mirror down turret and offal.