Prime Candidate

alex-brogan2’, one hundred and twenty seconds in, hip-flask comfort, abused. The electrified Torville and Dean skates towards Nottingham, synapses jangling at The Forest, around me fresh lip-stick, perfumed pheromones and tattooed testosterone. The night-economy, flexing wallets and purses, looser from pre-loading. High jinks and an evening of intimacy, who’s the joker in the pack? I sense that my Obsessive Compulsive In-Order with prime numbers is better than avoiding crack.

3’, at High School, backdrop both ways, state money closes on the under-world of pay-as-you-go booze and sex. The metronomic counterpoint. Methinks yes, bracing, lurching towards the descent into abject comfort and oblivion, Bendigo, boxing clever, even though David Herbert is an alumni, I assume the mantle of Mellors.

5’, had a place at this fine palace of academic learning, the northbound inverse, Robin Hood, almost full, national minimum wagers and fading retail therapy addicts, bleary-eyed, making their way home to soft furnishings in Maslow’s Hierarchy of futility. The state has already robbed them. ‘Next stop the Royal Centre’. An annoying voice splatters all over Bolero, ‘With links to SkyLink’, fuck me baby I am already doing the triple-salco.

19’, sat outside, 2nd pint in hand at the Campanologists Delight, sweaty palms and self-trepidation easing, one–way trip, my vista filled with ground floor carbuncles and a clock at 29 degrees above my unsteady horizon. The thought of ground floor food temporarily shudders me with anti-peristalsis. Swallowed bolus, nicotine stained fingers, a cough and a look at an un-finished crossword: Walk.

47’, got my bad sagging ass up to the ‘Ye Old Trip to American Support’, just pointed at the ‘Rocket Juice’ pump. Overlook Hotel reminded me of an overturned tri-cycle and a missed, overbearing, barren ex-wife. Considering the atrocities in Gaza, I temporarily forgave myself, walked, after many drinks, incidental talk, again.

149’, back into town, assumed a solitary booth, in the ‘Lost and Found’. M1 legs move over my recumbent carcass, hearing, ‘I am not here’, the person hides behind my considerable bulk. As the fracas dies down I glimpse fantastic laddered legs that make me forget about snakes. Tall women appeal to me, my joker has landed. We imbibe, converse, pupils dilate, brush of hands, oh to touch another human being. We laugh and cry about the absurdity of our condition, needing fresh air we depart into the Old Market Place.

239’, we sit, shoulders touching, I tickle her knee, a minute later bells sound to differentiate the Jewish Sabbath from the Christian Expectation. She says as the last peel reverberates over downtown, ‘Fancy a Coffee’. We traipse up to Lloyd Coles’ basement flat, a mere 373 yards away. I am in!!. Bollocks to the kettle.

661’, endless talk, vodka, snow, political correctness, my five o’clock in the morning shadow eased with my own dribble.

683’, in bed, after interminable foreplay I close in on the King Street/Queen Street vaginal confluence, legs akimbo, anticipation abounds, wrong gender! Bollocks.

691’, pain in the back, left arm tingles, crippled to my knees.

701’, blues and 2’s, thanks.

709’, shy lights, beeping machines, artificial breather, a guy in Bay 7 growling in pain with suspected peritonitis, cannulas like spirit optics as the tone and noise flat-line, fuck!, that’s my bay! 13 eyes look down on me, “prime”, national grid creaks, “clear”, involuntary shudder like jobbie pains, spray yawns and baby-shakes combined. An acrid smell from my now limp chest hair stirs my olfactory meltdown. Navel fluff intact. Orifices twitch, faeces, urine and sperm melt into Anarie Bevan’s wet-dream. Anvil, hammer and stirrup perform for the penultimate time, a muted cacophony of an unfinished symphony, the last vestiges of recognized organic life dissipate from my core

719’, auricular tricks, despite my limited understanding of prime numbers, I am pronounced dead at 7.59 am on Sunday 37th Julember 2014. ‘Cause of death – Lifestyle Choice, a Prime Candidate, Wrong Date, Right Time’. An ethereal thought, it would take more than the great General William Booth to deploy every rank of the Salvation Army. Shit my 11th life just ended.

720’, I spiritually depart QMC, this great city, lace christening garment, second-hand Raleigh bike, sandstone caves, 11 plus, 17 driving lessons, the river coursing through my now collapsed veins and arteries and looking down at Trent Bridge, ‘Ashes to Ashes’.

© Alex Brogan 2014. All rights reserved.