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[ti:Flat of Angles] |
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[ar:Benedict Cumberbatch] |
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[al:] |
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now for the final part of the four-part Late Night Tales story Flat of Angles |
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written by Simon Cleary and read by me Benedict Cumberbatch |
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I didn't know anything could be so perfect |
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the lights of the Mirabal |
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a thousand swirling eyes |
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I dream of relaxing nights |
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there are loads of people in my flat when I got home |
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I'm already one for big crowds |
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makes me want to retreat into my shell |
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I'm looking forward to seeing how it turns out |
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this is a reconstruction |
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I can't tell how it happened |
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there are too many angles,too many reflections |
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the harder I look at another,the more I see myself |
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it feels like I'm here alone in this crowd |
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myself projected round the room |
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the Mirrorball,a beam splitter |
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when contentment comes upon me ,I have to find ways to destroy it |
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I slide the hairs in the coffee cup up its walls |
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click the Catalan while it rushes and hisses |
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I danced with spiders |
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one of those spindly ones or legs and angles made up of lines is feasting on its prey caught up in a mesh |
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the kettle clicks off |
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my skin creeps and my head hurts |
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I need to suffer more |
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I was feeling too comfortable for a second there I guess |
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he was there to save me |
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alone in a freezing wooden flawed flat which I couldn't heat |
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he sent me this Mirabal ordered on the Internet |
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he came later |
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I'd had no money for a fewdays |
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he was desperate for a cigarette |
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I remembered that when I was younger |
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I'd hid some in a tin full of movie stubs |
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and limited edition chocolate bar wrappers |
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I found that in and inside was one single cigarette |
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throwing the stuff aside |
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I placed the cigarette carefully on my dry lips and patter caked my pockets in a panic |
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located lighter and flicked the flame into existence |
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I drew deeply tobacco and paper |
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crackling my alveoli filled my blood vessels roared |
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my scalp tingled and stomach turned |
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hairs on my arm stood up and so did I |
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lunging headfirst for the window flung open in one motion |
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drinking down the black cool air as my mind shrieked |
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I can't feel my arms |
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now I'm here who's been a happy person |
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I work hard and try not to let people down |
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if they would not be there |
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there would be no one to let down |
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things have to be a certain way |
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there is a beauty in order |
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I've cleaned this flat today before leaving for work there |
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I cleaned the storeroom arranged items in |
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the window smile that the customers |
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chose appropriate music wrap gifts gave |
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change smile that the staff told them stories of my past |
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smoked a cigarette by the bins,ordered sage colored visors from the parlaying catalogue |
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lay down on the four-poster bed with no mattress |
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glanced out of the window ,cleaned the windows ,warm some soup,dusted the labs ,waited for the Sun to set,counted listened locked |
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and then it was time to walk home |
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this is not my town ,but then again where is? |
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these are not my people,but is anyone really? |
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he is here again |
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wind milling round the rooms |
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knocking ashtrays over |
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bellowing to be heard |
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desperation in his eyes |
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I know how he feels |
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but he does something about it |
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he gets out of his face ,waits for a gap in the conversation |
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and jabbers his philosophy without solicitation |
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our eyes meet across the room |
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and I feel a little like the spider |
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I gathered the spent cans in a blue plastic off-licence bag and smile as I stoop |
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how is your weak beam |
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well work was quite good sold the chiminea last and looking forward to tonight |
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you've been listening to Late Night Tales |
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Music and stories worth staying up for |
