Grünerløkka by Adam Moorad

I think it was the codeine; this was after my money wire arrived. I had checked into a backpacker motel indefinitely: a room with four walls, each painted a different color, each peeled; the ceiling too. It was Oslo, the dead of winter; every hour felt late. Awaking fully clothed and bleeding from my nose in the bathtub, my hands had pruned and were shaking. I felt jetlagged, I remembered naught.
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One day there was a lion with no eyes but extremely keen hearing. Awards were to be won, oh yes and lion won them all. Progressively, speeches were given which were received with much applause and contempt, simultaneously. Snakes and horses of every colour in the rainbow grinned and neighed and frequented the neighbourhood pubs after these glorious occasions. Impressed ducklings (ugly or not) cavorted and paraded their feathers but lion did not want these prizes; he was no king of the jungle to be swayed in such slippery fashions.

I was quite at liberty to venture beyond the boundary of Wallops Roost as long as in daylight hours. So our Granny Wallop had informed me. I was elated. Back home in Leeds, before this summer holiday, lately re-branded relocation, ‘Ee, stop thi mitherin’. Go aht t’laik, can’t thee?’ was a favourite refrain of my mother’s. It seemed my company was not appreciated anywhere by anyone.

            I do wish it had been
                        a different
                        time,
            she said

if
in the endless black and white
there IS ANOTHER set of sentients
color me clear
as a mirage du mer
as the boy what forced his Irish accent
well into the tenth grade