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City of Cows

The mooing gets to me. The Artist is returned to work. To the grind. The cows are out in force this morning. Coffee cups in hoofs. Ear buds. Neat and tidy. The Artist recoils. It won’t end until it ends. The brief interlude of holidays spent. It’s over now, baby. I could look elsewhere. Yes, it’s me. I am the Artist. I could look elsewhere but bovine similarity reeks from sewer grates and clogged sinks.

The sky had an autumnal smell off it when I got up first. The bus driver smoking a fag, pacing. Bleep the card. All the things I pushed from my head when not working are crowding the door now, forcing their way in. Do you feel the encroachment of night, the shedding of the long day, the colder breath of the turning of the year. We’re getting there. The shops are full of school books and bags.

The cow herd stood still, wide idiot eyes gleaming at the Luas track. Another worker will be in soon and I’ll have to talk to her. The spell will be broken then. I’ll be sucked through the surface tension. No more hedgehog skulls. No more elegant stones and wet-faced, bulge-eyed money-men. Minutes though. Who’ll take them. You’d want to be mental to follow this blog. Have you noticed. It lacks focus. Like a muppet drunk and lost.

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