rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Dull

Amazing, how much I forget anymore. Again today I forgot I was going to do some laundry. If I wait any longer I'll have to divide it into more loads. Already it's a job that will take much of a day, especially if I forget (and I probably will) to move stuff from the washer to the dryer. I should probably get started on it now, even though I'm apt to fall asleep before I'm done, and leave something sitting in the machines until tomorrow. I'm running low on clean clothes. But imagine Christmas morning and going out to find the dryer full of clean pants and shirts like a present to myself. That would be nice.

But tonight just seems a bit odd. It's chilly outside, but not as chilly as I'd expected, and very quiet. An overcast is hiding the stars and the waxing crescent moon. The overcast is probably what's keeping the night a bit warmer than expected, too. But it is very, very dull and boring. The television is apt to be dull and boring, too, since the PBS stations are not showing any English murders, but only reruns of last year's series about young Queen Victoria.

As far as I know, Victoria never murdered anyone. Not directly, in any case. She just sent her army and navy out to slaughter foreigners, and even then she had plausible deniability because, you know, Parliament and Prime Ministers. If only she'd been able to have someone, maybe the Earl of Aberdeen, or perhaps William McGonagall, beheaded, the show would be more interesting.

Anyway, if I'm going to do laundry on a Sunday night this is the Sunday night to do it on. But I'm also going to make some onion soup. I think that might just make up for the paucity of decent television to watch. If not, then I'll just have to turn to drink.




Sunday Verse



Shapeshifters


by John Burnside

Stepping outside in the dark,
if only to fetch the coal, this December night,

I stop in a river of wind
on the cellar steps

and think of men, no different from me,
transforming themselves at will

to animals
– misshapen lives
suspended in the blood,

slithering loose
and loping away through the snow

half-flesh,
half-dream;

or, coming in,
I turn to face the cold

with nothing in my veins
but haemoglobin,

the thought of someone
not unlike myself

in borrowed senses
– marten, dog-fox, wolf –

coming to some new scent, some bitter truth,
and gulping it down in the dark

while the hunters
listen.

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