Your First Cappuccino of the Day, Leonard Disney.

“There are worse things…”, on that we can agree.
For instance, there are worse things than visiting the municipal zoo only to find all the animals asleep…
But then what is a person your age doing at the zoo? You may as well ask Don Quixote what he’s doing fighting windmills. Ask me what my interest is in sleeping animals and I’ll smile, but will not remove my gaze from some caged bundle of fur, a tail, and amazing lungs – which snores…

And I’ll say…
“How did you manage to break into the zoo at night-time?”
You make two assumptions here – that it is closed, which means one cannot enter. Also, I dislike your tone – why assume I broke in?
I had a camera; I listened to a symphony, but then preferred the sound of air. Which you will presume makes no sound, and it will be a poor soul like you, Amy, who wakes me from my daydreams of night.

As I read the paper on New World Street, my head and feet in foreign climes, I decided that there are worse things than downing one’s sorrows in…

How I love thee.
I won’t count the ways; you know. It’s – your froth, my spoon, my lips, your warmth.
I need no flavoured syrups,
but love.

We know this better than Starbucks. And I know everything better than the man dressed as Santa Claus. Except here, he’s called Saint Nicholas, and I miss my local library. “Świat”, or “World”, presumably as in “World News”, was a word in the paper that I could recognise from the airport.

Confusing. I was freeing the penguins from the faux-Antarctic swimming pool, catching the fish that leapt for freedom in my hands. There I was in a daydream, dripping past the bars of the cage to see an old friend

and this is how –

my entire body reduced to tears, my hands recognisable only as puddles. For this I had to cry, and cry out so intensely. There are worse things.

When in the cage, I offered the lion a greeting he would not hear. He slept so deeply, and grand exhalations from his nostrils disturbed my puddle. I checked the time of the moon, and consulted my watch – a clock face that rose with a bubble to the surface.

Kneeling down beside the lion, I felt human but not solid, because that irritates me. In the dark, I felt for the lion’s bones, and in a state of liquidity, I notice my own – my muscles floating as if in a cold stew, the occasional human bone snapping with each movement. With every broken bone, I shed a tear, but it is painless. I find the lion’s mane, stroke it and, with the effortlessness of water, loose my clothes.



Leo Disney’s Post-Cartographical Espresso with Amy

The name “Amy” came to me earlier. Ah, Malina, my little raspberry. In my multicoloured waist-coat and shabby bow-tie. Since my company fell foul of the last nightmare sequence, let someone else lead that team of asses.

I understood an article about impotence and haemorrhoids.

I took the teaspoon,  and detached a finger from my hand.

Malina, do you remember the computerised ballroom?

The man sitting two tables away let out a short scream and spilt his mineral water.

“Excuse me, Malina” I said, drawing a map in blunt pencil, “Where are we, perhaps?”

Amy pointed to a tram station.

3 Responses

  1. So gently strange and sweet surreal at the edges. Sentences which froth and bubble and enliven like a good cappucino. I think I better have some of that coffee, too.

  2. Oh my goodness, I am transfixed by this. Ugh, I adore writing like this and want to savour it often. I am a cappuccino connoisseur but with writing I am still learning, always learning…

    I must have a dash of whiskey in mine, it helps keep the cold at bay.

  3. wimsical and strong, how clever, Peter.

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