My coffee was exotic.

The cream was thick and chill.

I was feeling down like burnt malaise.

But for that, they had a pill.

The model came from Instagram.

So hot, it seemed like crime.

Necks all snapped, and heartbeats capped.

Traffic halted on a dime.

There was liquor and a base beat.

And the rest, I’m not so sure.

There was lust and fussed and upper crust.

And my intentions less than pure.

All

It started out as leisure.

Just a story with a name.

Just a dirty little poem.

With no guilt that wasn’t shame.

Then there was the paintings.

Looked like something maybe art.

Then a thought became a film.

Just no stopping once we start.

Was a murmur from a choir.

And a voice that rattled hymn.

From a note that just got higher.

In a light that knew no dim.

In the moments that were awkward.

I learned to listen and looked to see.

Saw the living and breathed spirits.

You can’t guess which one is free.

I am reading again… Savage Art, a biography about Jim Thompson, the author of The Killer Inside Me & The Grifters.

Here’s a quote:

“There are 32 ways to tell a story, and I’ve used them all. There’s only one plot. Things are not as they seem.”

Brilliant Mr Thompson!

The sentence was death by boredom. The virus spread the earth.

Madness rained down upon them. Like some monsters giving birth.

They handed out free money. The kind that makes you soft.

And nearly jumped out their skin. When someone smiled and coughed.

Then Dylan put out an album. With a song called Murder Most Foul.

That sounds as disgusted as I feel. Like the purging of a bowel.

I’ve learned to take the blessings and take them as they come.

He is at another level, a bit too much for some.

The Edges lifted slowly.

Saw something in their eyes.

They were choosing words so carefully.

Building manufactured lies.

I was less than loose and goosy.

And more than just a breeze.

I was feeling cruel and dangerous.

With a glare not meant to please.

They were nervous from the get go.

I was feeling filthy right.

And left them in their misery.

To contemplate their plight.

Marcus wrote, ‘When you arise in the morning think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive-to breathe, to think, to enjoy and to love. ‘

Now there’s a meditation.

It might be important to note that Mr Aurelius was the last of what was considered to be in Rome…

‘The 5 Good Emporers. ‘ A period of about 200 years that ended in 180 A.D.

Marcus was also a Stoic Philosopher.

“What a great idea… Do you know what this place is missing? A box of shit in the living room! Let’s get a cat.”

I moved into the ground floor apartment at 77 Laxton with Al one floor above me and his son Mark one floor above Al; without incident.

After a few days, fears of running into Al faded into the distant foggy memories of past experiences.

I settled into a routine of shift work and Candice once or twice a week. She had a weird habit of calculating dollar value whenever we had sex. After she shared this tally with me the third or fourth time, I asked.

“So, you want this to be a hooker/john type relationship?” Then, the Candy experiences faded with Al into the mists of the past. Mark shared more Al stories with me, but I never saw much of either of them after that. I was asleep when I heard Al’s voice coming through my ceiling.

“I brought you into this world, and I can take you out! I will rip your throat out with my bare teeth!”

He repeated this a dozen times before I got up, dressed, went out my door, climbed the stairs, and kicked open Al’s front door.

Al slowly turned to face me. He was barely able to stand. Red faced in his underwear, drunk, and raged. He was holding a quart bottle of half consumed spirits. I walked towards him slowly, wagging my finger towards him and yelling. I stopped when I was right in his face.

“Al! If you don’t shut the fuck up and let me sleep I’m going to rip out your throat with my bare teeth… do you understand me Al?

Al’s eyes began to water. His arms shot out in an attempt to give me a hug. I stepped aside.

Finally, he said, ‘Dennis! Where you been?’

I burst out laughing and left. In that moment, Maltese Al was the loneliest man I had ever seen. I saw the price he’d paid for being a narcissistic abusive bullying cunt…

I moved somewhere soon after. I can’t remember the details. Wherever it was, it wasn’t with Maltese Al.

Dennis Mantin