Bathtime for Esau
Ian M
Posts: 123
You say I’m not old enough to benefit from, be worthy of these thoughts.
I say I’m not young enough any more to shake the bastards off: all grabbing furious at my ankles like that.
All in Good Time.
Bath Time is the best time for once more coming to terms with the constant assail. To bemoan and wail after turning off the cold to leave a scalding seep that tingles ambiguously up from the toes. The blood rising pink, knowing no better reaction.
And Evil is the denial of the senses.
‘And why do you think we should know this?’
---
& each sensation hallucinated away by a learned trick of the mind is another sleeper under twin rails that wind from the town on a slight incline out to THAT gateway.
Thick obscuring fogs make it hard to see a sliding stairwell, but each small step requires another little uphill push.
You might call it Jacob’s Escalator of Indignity.
---
Writhing waters slush to one side and the other as you hold yourself under to drown out the anxious voices in their element outside.
You’d reached for the shampoo, squeezed upside down a toothpaste pea-size of the marrow from its frugal bottle, prodded the mess into a few select follicles before rasping it vigorously away.
The plug is teased out by the softened nails of a single hand, and you sit a-while staring at stray hairs on your inner thigh, trying to remember when there had been less bulk in the arm, in the knee, in the nipple, and what it was like.
You replace the plug in a horror.
The assumption was that you were finished because the hair was clean.
But the soap, the Soap!
And the rest…
---
He remembers he felt most in touch when fantasising intensely about how normal his love life might be. How casual the depths of a relationship might appear to the un-initiated. Of course, he could never go along with this in joke: immediately to be called up and caught in his posturings of grandeur. Oh, how something at first so beautifully simple in his hands might exponentiate into bloated, asymmetrical complexity!
Once it became clear he was about ten years ahead of himself and his interested party, he would crash out of it with not a little relief, feign embarrassment or some other suitable endocrinal response, making a sweet apology before a succinct exit.
As it has turned out: from both of their lives.
---
I wish hair would cut itself.
Hairs do not cut themselves.
You can force hair to lengthen if you pull on it strongly enough.
Be careful, though, when teasing their potential out singly.
A different kind of force is required
here
I say I’m not young enough any more to shake the bastards off: all grabbing furious at my ankles like that.
All in Good Time.
Bath Time is the best time for once more coming to terms with the constant assail. To bemoan and wail after turning off the cold to leave a scalding seep that tingles ambiguously up from the toes. The blood rising pink, knowing no better reaction.
And Evil is the denial of the senses.
‘And why do you think we should know this?’
---
& each sensation hallucinated away by a learned trick of the mind is another sleeper under twin rails that wind from the town on a slight incline out to THAT gateway.
Thick obscuring fogs make it hard to see a sliding stairwell, but each small step requires another little uphill push.
You might call it Jacob’s Escalator of Indignity.
---
Writhing waters slush to one side and the other as you hold yourself under to drown out the anxious voices in their element outside.
You’d reached for the shampoo, squeezed upside down a toothpaste pea-size of the marrow from its frugal bottle, prodded the mess into a few select follicles before rasping it vigorously away.
The plug is teased out by the softened nails of a single hand, and you sit a-while staring at stray hairs on your inner thigh, trying to remember when there had been less bulk in the arm, in the knee, in the nipple, and what it was like.
You replace the plug in a horror.
The assumption was that you were finished because the hair was clean.
But the soap, the Soap!
And the rest…
---
He remembers he felt most in touch when fantasising intensely about how normal his love life might be. How casual the depths of a relationship might appear to the un-initiated. Of course, he could never go along with this in joke: immediately to be called up and caught in his posturings of grandeur. Oh, how something at first so beautifully simple in his hands might exponentiate into bloated, asymmetrical complexity!
Once it became clear he was about ten years ahead of himself and his interested party, he would crash out of it with not a little relief, feign embarrassment or some other suitable endocrinal response, making a sweet apology before a succinct exit.
As it has turned out: from both of their lives.
---
I wish hair would cut itself.
Hairs do not cut themselves.
You can force hair to lengthen if you pull on it strongly enough.
Be careful, though, when teasing their potential out singly.
A different kind of force is required
here
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