Sometimes when I gaze into my eyes I think they look like bottomless pits. Especially when I look at them in tube windows and they meld into the upside down version of me visible in the curve. They become void orbs gazing out of the blackness of the tube behind, distorted by speed, and the epitome of tunnel vision. Looking at myself looking at my phone I look like two Lemonheads joined at the tip, like an hourglass face in which my features trickle like sand between the two.
My face is as pale as the moon when its ghostly apparition appears through a smog cloud at Notting Hill Gate, where I am waiting for a post snow coach with the taste of Peroni in my mouth and an empty packet of tobacco taunting me from the left breast pocket of my snow damp denim jacket. Rag tag ghost trails of grey clouds scudding ineffectually across the smog ridden London sky. Detuned and starless.
I coughed so hard I cried at a traffic light and people asked me if I was alright as I stepped up to the bus stop and I was fine but looked a mess as usual.
Walked up to the driver as the hiss-put of the doors opening underscored my stumbling footsteps, I opened my hands. Here is my bus money.
Here is my damp coat and my damp book-filled pockets with Watership Down in one side and Celtic myths in the other, like they are segments of mushroom made to alter my dimensions at will. One side will make you larger.
Here is my cold fingered grip on the evening
Here is my empty handed reach for the night.
Here is my snow drift hair and snow drift smile and snow drift laugh and snow drift self and snow drift and snow drift and snow
It’s no wonder, they said.