Regime Change

Psst, CJ here.
Haven’t been around since Christmas Eve.
It’s cos of JC, he is getting right on my tits. He is obsessing about keeping fit and has been for the the last few months, everyday he is at some kinda gymnastics, where limbs get elastic.
Classes, called somethink like spooning, pimp and skimp, kickbashing, or …or…. Turbopunch for Christesakeds.
Hence no angst-riding writing, or maudlin paragraphs of angry histrionics, or paradoxical points of fact in this crazy, topsy turvey, new fangled idealistic world.
Fruit Salads, fuckin fruit salads, in a see-through bowl, he makes that regularly, in a see through bowl.
Running through the wids at seven in the morning, capturing the red-embered skies, pink on the horizon, as bulbous sweatbeads spray, aff his heid, kissing the branches of birch and pine, his heart beating fearlessly.
He sleeps, contentedly, with his mug, smug and his shit solid.
No pining , no whining, no winding up.
He is happy.
This means war.


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