OH INDUSTRY, WHATEVER WILL BECOME OF ME

Sometimes it feels good to tuck my fringe behind my ear, because at last I can see the whole picture. But I can't, really, because it's scattered in a thousand pieces before me. I keep missing one side of the story, so I have to re-scramble my construction but there is no way in Hell I'm starting over completely. And then my fringe slips. Now I see half the problem.
Myra watches me. She smiles gently. It's okay, you'll get it soon, she says. Come to bed, and I'll make us a cuppa. She has the hardened stare of a gorgeous queen, whose colony is not worthy of sustained life before her superiority. But I'll go anyway, because I miss her and she keeps disappearing for hours on end, then reappearing when I least expect it.
Before I do, I push through the waves of picture pieces but I don't find the border; and without the border there is no picture. And without the picture, there is no sight. I blink, and again, and again; only this time I leave my eyes closed. Myra's tongue is shaping its own picture for me. I don't need eyes for this.
If I only had a hearttttttttttttt.
Don't dally now, she says. Look, put it in your mouth. Keep, and you'll be right. She smiles again. Even though my eyes are closed, I can still hear the wet slide of her lips against teeth. It's very quick though. I like the taste of her views in my mouth.

The picture I attempted, though, will die unfinished; but not I. I'd rather share a cup of tea with Myra and rest on quilt. By now, the violins are raping my eardrums but they're so fierce I can't resist. Oh, shame. Look at us, we both love classical music. I remember today me and my Mam walked into The Warehouse and I found an odd long metal stick of some kind, in the garden section.
Look Ma, I said, this would make for some good sodomizing.
I start giggling and Ma laughs, says God. She thinks I'm joking.
Myra laughs with me. We laugh at the man at the end of the aisle.

Then when we get to the car, there is a woman pulling a huge Rose West on her kid. Wait for it... she's white, too! She literally grabs her seven year old son roughly by the arm, kneels down to his level and shakes him. She's yelling right in his face; so loud her voice penetrates the closed windows of the car. Saying something like, No you can't have it, and you will bloody listen when I say no. Use your fucking ears, I said NO. Now go to the car; HURRY UP.
That woman is so mad, and the funny thing is myself and my rage can relate. Myra shakes next to me. She says she can't hear properly, and asks me to dictate the words to her.
The father is trudging in front of them, uselessly. He looks embarrassed; and I would be too, if my fat ugly wife was abusing our kid in public, with total disregard of the attention she's attracting. Whoa, it's a white woman yelling at her kid. Me Mam is shocked. Look at her, she says, has she no shame at all? I could have responded in a similar fashion but I'm too interested in the situation. Go to your father, the woman says, and she ducks behind the car to shake him- and probably to hit him. The kid, he looks familiar, the way he walks like a timid dog to his father's side of the car. The father faces the concrete as his wife slides into the passenger seat; all three of her chins high with pride. There is a look on her face that says what I can't recite, otherwise I'll be arrested after I've submitted this blog entry.