Cradle 

Pressing his index fingers onto his spongy eyelids and pushing up their soft lined skin, a thousand or so colours rush to his mind as he tries to remember if it is Sunday. 

One colour remains – fleshy, fat, pink. 

Soggy lids prised wide, wonders – are the blared and glowing  pink stubs middle fingers are ring? White trimmed fingernails graze his eyelashes.His eyes begin to dry and prune in the Sun like expensive tinned tomatoes. 

His fingers press on the shrivelled spheres. He scrapes on the muddy corneas – dry eye paint flake and float into the air above his head.

He carves a puncher and bores his digits into each crust topped poached egg. Fleshed grippers pull the husks from the socket.

He discards them into a nearby mint plant. He sips his coffee while fingering an empty socket. Forcing his hand he cracks skull around the eye and reaches for watery flan within. Fumbling confused fingers pull floppy, gray-yellow, folded Me from his head and I’m held in cradled cup.

“What time does the match start tonight?”

“No, re.sourcem…..s and jdj jdickcc cjdisdmfggls fr….ee difjvkm. …….”

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