It gasps me, what is that sound? Its not a thud, once a thud, now a hollow resound, a drum beat for nothing. The surpringly vast chamber of my heart reverberates with echoes of feelings disavowed yet near fresh as the day they were born. Into which wind were they thrown? The wind of my time? Her time? The time bearing us all...boats beating ceaselessly? Too often it seems to me in the hopeless squalor of my perpetually drunken mind, the relentless selfishness of my abashed need, that I have lost. It seems to me the simplest sadness, not hateful sadness, not vengeful, no fuel for a fire to outburn the burning desire to be loved. Only absence describes the cavity in my heart and the caving through my soul. But the absense of word and meaning desolates me, I pick through the bleached landscape of dessicated rock and I'm in another world. But I know this place, I spent some time here, summers and winters, half a lifetime, spring and autumn if you seek completeness, dry but the patterns on the stones were interesting if you studied them closely enough. I gasp because it chokes my throat if i let it, the dead hand of sadness, it grants no air to breath whilst the other hand wrenches the gutteral vitality of my being down, down , unloosened by the determined veneer of joy. I gasp, I smile, I cry.
Pub review They say: "We came for a skittle on a Saturday night and they were very welcoming but you know how you hear about lizards ruling the world, the barstaff had a very lizardy look. Make your own mind up!" --Craig Savage 4/5 I say: 'The place where everybody knows your name' The claim is painted onto the wall and doesn't seem so outlandish on this chilly Tuesday night as there is no-one in the pub to know my name or not. Dry January? I can't imagine that's a thing around these parts. You don't keep over 30 pubs in business with virtuous gestures like that. It might be a Tuesday thing. Per usual I try to find a quiet corner with my beer, surely an easy task in an empty pub? Not so. Speakers hang from every nook and carpet the space in a thick fog of sound. It isn't even the usual autotuned pop/R&B dirge being vomited into my ears. That stuff I can confine to a background hum. Instead it's the pre-match commentary for the Brighto...
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