Rosary beads

We live on an apt circle. Smaller then the big spherical one.  A north circular circle. It’s mid-term now and hormonal boys circle my circle. Searching and longing in a hands down their pants way.  They pass me by in their huge hoodies as I circle our circle eveningtime.

“Well men”, I mumble respectfully, for they are more men then boys and are searching for truth and sex. “Sniffle you mumbling, stumbling sunt”, one always mutters. They’re looking for Darla, she’s home safe though. I have the key, you see, with me.

There’s a moment, an instant, a tiny small part which is less, much less then a tenth of a second, in Romania when the rosary beads hanging from the rear view mirror sway more then gently, the holy beads lurch leftwards and I ask  “ Did you see that?” and sickeningly, an affirmative reply reminds me that I lived.

Relative velocity, get out the math book and do the sums. The olive guy in the black suit who owns the black German projectile in which we hurtle across central Europe, well, he’s doing 120 mph on the wrong side of the road, our side if you will. The relative velocity generator, who is no relative I’m assured, is doing something similar on the WRONG central European side of the road. In the chasm of that instant of realisation, we touch death and the crucifix sways 90 degrees, in that infinity we live because the Transylvanian black suit does a Michael Schumacher.

Budapest, four consecutive shaky cigarettes and trembling expensive Danube-side beers, loitering hookers and redemption. The crash beckons but the beer is stronger and so is the later second bottle of Villany soft red. Heathrow in a instant,  conversant with a cut glass Reaganite reading Revelation on the plane, the crash looms large and waits until the last hop later that evening to our own stormy banana republic and then, I crash and crash from 34,000 vomity feet, screaming inside and needing to do something, anything, after feeling the fear and wondering why.   

8 responses to “Rosary beads

  1. Orinoco Flow (er)

    So Sniffle, Rawmania and Darla and hormones, yep that sort’ve sums it all up! Have yet to experience this with our sprog, I’m not letting him out of the house until he’s at least 40!

  2. Hey Orinoco,
    His hand will fall to his crotch, soon. You won’t notice until it’s there, on his crotch, and then it will be too late. It will remain there until………, well I don’t know. At every break in son’s training, all hands fall to crotch. Maybe when someone else’s hand replaces his !

  3. I could unwrap this over and over and over.

    So, so good.

  4. This doesn’t really respond to the poetry, but regarding the crotch holding, a mother on Rollercoaster was worrying about her little boy holding his willy a lot, and someone else said that as she was typing she was looking over at her husband on the sofa with his hands down his pants. It’s just comfort, really, not weapon weilding, or anything, I think.

    You give Darla confidence and self esteem and the certainty that she doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to, that’s all she needs.

  5. Despite numerous assurances that it won’t fall off the crotch holding remains a constant. My two offspring advise that its a boxer shorts thing. Yea.

    Sniff, glad you got back in one piece.

  6. Thanks much Xbox, just happy to get home for a finish. Hate that flying gig.

  7. Thanks Jo,

    I see all his pals doing the same crotch thing, and they’re all twelve. I think it’s a hormonal thing.

    And Darla, yep, confidence building all the time, helping her to make good decisions for herself.

  8. Hey @17,

    I suppose for as long we draw breath we reserve the right. Thanks

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