and his publicity stunning. reeking of honeywine and marmalade ringing his painted lips, he dances down the street. feet dragging, slagging, along and catching on the cracks. his strawberry tongue lolls. he looks right through a stranger’s eyes and says, ‘on my way to the show, i am.’ the words crawl out of his mouth and bumble out to splatter on the cobble. and he points with the bottle clutched in hand to down the street where music is exhaled from the bar-mouth. the stranger turns away. ‘i love a good fuckin’ show.’ 

​

it costs a couple of pennies to get into the bar and somehow our mime fishes some out of his elbow deep pockets. the floor is sticky and rickety and tilts him as he walks. a chair beckons for him. in here, he’s really paid no attention to. when he puts his wine bottle down on the table, he knocks over a half-drunk glass of something that spills. ‘sorry,’ he says to it. and slaps it onto the floor. 

​

woodwind and brass are sticking their noise right in his ears. the singing on stage is warbled and garbled. tap. two, three, four. tap. two, three, four, goes his foot. down goes more honeywine. his own scratched-up tenor slurs along, giving everyone there to see the cabaret a good peek at the inside of a mime’s mouth. and they don’t even care to look.

​

​

27 May, 2021