This is Brazil


This is Brazil


From a fifth storey bachelor’s window, pondering shadows in the car park below, Johnny opens another can.

I stuff another pipe.

We talk about our trip to Brazil and how great it would’ve been had we gone; Johnny turns up the radio.

I take the first hit.

Old girlfriends swing by in our conversation, most of them giving us the finger, mind you. Johnny dabs at his tears.

I pass him the pipe.

Dusk-scalpels are slicing through the curtains now, scraping over coffee table dust, through Irish coffee stains, and cut open Johnny’s frown.

The neighbours are at it again, arguing: he accuses her of seeing someone else, she tells him correct, it’s your fucking sister.

Johnny taps out the pipe in the ashtray, says he has to do someone a favour and throws on his jacket; says take it easy, buddy.

Johnny’s shadow tiptoes into the evening, a car alarm screams and a gunshot cries.

I convince myself this is Brazil.

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