Bostin News: I Can Hear Your Inner Thoughts by Tim Brinkhurst
Smethbleak - by Tim Brinkhurst
Father Barry Starts the Day
‘You woke me up.’ Father Barry, in his grey marathon T-shirt. Looks at the morning through slitted eyes, taking turns to blink at his god.
Fresh fox sh*t on the drive.
Dew on the balcony.
The chute is blocked.
She dreads the loss of comfort when spotty pyjamas discarded and warm, wet flannel applied. Morning starts.
Sugar and milk.
Honey. Yoghurt.
We only ever see the faces of our travelling companions reversed, in mirrors. Eyes fixed on their own mirrors, inching forwards instinctively, ass shifting on worn fake leather.
We live in cars. We are parked.
Buses don’t count.
Cyclists connoisseur the fumes, their lungs discuss the merits of each type of damage.
Buses arrive.
Coffee. Farts.
Today is something important.
Disinfectant gnaws at hand skin, nibbles at nostrils.
They should give her gloves.
They. We.
Today is something important.
I arrived today, this morning, to make it happen.
Meeting. Nothing happens unless it was given the heads-up.
I sometimes think I could lift that girder all alone, slot it into place on the ninth floor.
The smell of freshly drilled ply.
A child’s cheek discovers the cool of a wall.
Hard snot.
Hard snot.
How does he get away with picking his nose like that? On the shop floor.
You wouldn’t understand what I do.
Concentrate on the smallest thing… Now imagine something smaller still.
I can make you stop with a look.
I can make your cock grow.
Right there, anywhere, even if it’s just a dream, I can taste you.
Whipped by hair.
Hand in pocket, a quick touch through three layers of cotton.
This is heavy but it’s on my back. Why bring books when I have a computer?
She remembers him. It was another kind of time and he doesn’t exist now, in this time.
Say the words as a list:
Pregnant
Brown eyes
Long lashes
Clean nails
Madness
Love.
Up here we see the backs of birds, with their wings stretched out, faces in the feather patterns, sliding across a sharp current of cold.
Hurry up.
Buses don’t count.
A nice smile on an old, worn out face. I can see why she loved you.
My thumbs impress me.
You win, I don’t care.
I do care.
Who is looking? Turn around.
When the ache meets the sheets.
Taste of sweet tea, savoured.
Sleeping as the city wakes.
Daydreaming.
Father Barry decides on a lie-in. But first he turns his mobile off. Made his calculations. He can afford this because of overtime.
Counts the cars.
A distant train squeezes into a gap between other moving traffic. An aeroplane flies to Chicago. Chicago!
That’s a bus.
Buses don’t count.
Sound artist and producer Tim Brinkhurst has produced 5 sound pieces for Bostin News.
Words, sound and images - Tim Brinkhurst
Commissioned for Bostin News Summer 2020