The Toaster Handle Depressed

The handle of the toaster blue, not depressed with a satisfying click, rick, I swivelled around on my bare foot but in my doing so forgot totally red what I was doing next. I gazed around my multicoloured kitchen with eyes blue ready for whatever truth should befall me white. I was accused by violent looking yellows, given the cold shoulder by incandescent blues stared at by vermillion greens, looked at sheepishly by scarlet reds and my light scattered by silver and blue. heres looking at you.

And I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet, yellow and red, blood, of course, would be spat and the moment that contained not a bit of grit as my unkempt hair grey and brown stared back at me accusing the use of a brush-like a murder weapon throbbing black and deadly, or was that the vein in my forehead red.

Meanwhile, the windows in my kitchenette were staring at me brown bread between my eyes in some sort of Wild West face off in a saloon of the slim chance. The condensation soiled white plastic covered in a mixture of dust and grime stared at me sideways while the faded wooden blinds looked implacably at me like policeman annoyed and calling for backup to have a good laugh at the sorry figure before him. It was all I could do not to blood wilt before this visage of brown wood and plastic white. What was gone from me was all mention of the fight. In my eyes was yellow of cowardice striped over me in thick Pebeo paint. The mark of the blind upon me, I shuffled into the living room cum bedroom with the cup of coffee in hand. I chose where to put it down brown. onto a stained wooden squarish coaster red. I am dead. I am rotting at the bottom of a cheap wooden cask on a boat which will dump me at sea which is cheaper than crematoria blue. How can this be cheaper than gas? I don’t know but polka dot blue walls golf ball sized reminds me that change happens. just like in the Allianz advert green. Change happens.

A door sparkly green opens up before me in the time it takes for the toaster to make the sound of ejecting a finished matt piece or two of toast and then slams shut as I reach for the butter brown. Wearing a frown, I am dammed to pick up a clean knife from the pile in cupboard issue number one. Navy Blue. The toast is now neon pink and hot and dusty as I take it from the toast yellow with a sugar coating.

I load butter onto the knife umber burned and place it on the toast black and white and patterned in pentangle blue. The butter melts red and soon my toast looks like a slab of flesh fresh from a bomb blast. It’s impossible to pick it up without shivering at some level deep inside wide.

It tastes good as sausages and I remember that in time soon I will need to clean my teeth. Washing up now building up. Butter put away in a stripey red cupboard. Flashing blue hue as I clang the plate beside the brush beside the sink. I blink and see that it is dirty. I care. I am aware of the things that bring me down, that make me frown. But if I were to be happy I would need to clean fro two or more hours a day and to spend all my moola green on cleaning and polishing products blue with fragrances yellow like a meadow next to an industrial tyre dump fire. I say that now blue cow. Really I seem brown again like soft tree bark again I get it wrong. I meant soil brown. it wears a brown for brown soil you know. a crown for brown you see. It makes me jolly.

I shuffle back into the Bedroom and then remember my tablets blue. I go into my room bath and spy the tabs upon the loo. I take two into the kitchen and water clear pour, not onto the floor but into a tumbler that I use to wash down the chemical splat that I fire myself like an archer twice a day in the hope that they will hit the target Bright cerulean blue.

Now tectonic shifts are taking place in the muscles of my back and they suddenly pull me erect in the direction of the ceiling green as I spy the toothpaste kit upon the sink.

Squeeze out a pea-sized amount is what I hear but I squeeze out double clean onto the bristles green of my toothbrush blue. Do I put the lid closed now green yellow blue red, or do I bang it on my head. Do I play the game red-brown? or do I leave the bathroom wearing a frown? I decide its better red so I bang it on my head closing the cap foolscap. I put the brush red plastic into my mouth and place the pea sized amount against the edges of my gums and begin to brush. Back and forth and above me rains grey slush cold and wet down my back and into the but wellingtons I wear where they will fill until I freeze to death. I brush and soon I am on my front teeth where I change brushing direction to an up and down motion. I could operate farm machinery I thought orange. The pain goblins at work behind my eyes shoot arrows at my mouth which mostly blue miss but sometimes brown connect. I carry on brushing like the wind up father Christmas red. I feel like going back to bed. Thirty seconds have passed says I time to spit and to the toothpaste kit say goodbye. I spit aiming into the centre of the bowl but letting it spray everywhere. I put on the cold tap and rinse it thoroughly before taking a mouthful of water and spitting again. this time more accurately into the centre of the sink black and silver shiny and clean and decaying chrome. I reach fro the towel brown and wipe my mouth dry. I replace it on the rail and turn around ready to  leave that room of pain.

I leave and venture back into my living room cum bedroom green. One day I would like to meet the queen.

To be continued…


Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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