Pomme, Self Portrait, Oil on Board, 75 x 75cm 2010

The Black Hat

Empyrean Heights lay underneath his black felt hat, hiding deceptive black eyes.

Lucifer was once an angel and if he were a real thing, he’d stride through cobble streets just like yer one, playing music as badly as he did to put people off the scent that he was the devil himself.

Cross legged in lotus position, he sat there naked, his sinewy sallow skin stretched firmly from neck to toe as he stared through the sitting room walls.

The frosted glass on the window echoed behind him, some sort of Velvet Underground vibes going on. It was all about image.

The fuzzy light set a soft vignette down on his swimmers shoulders.

A pipe of marijuana lay on a walnut cradle, not giving a fuck, tipping over the sofa’s edge. The sharp crisp sound of turning pages cut through the blurred commotion of street children playing nearby.

He sipped hot, thick java with remarkable stealth. His long fingers pianoed their way from pipe to page to cup.

The skylight outside the kitchen opened.
Heavy footsteps in bedroom slippers plonked down the ladder.
His neck stiffened, jaw clenched, teeth ground themselves down another smidge. His delicate fingers lifted the hair from his head and drew his greying curly hair back, letting loose the exasperated, annoyed expression that betrayed the perfect tableaux of the enlightened soul.

Her descent was followed by noisy silence. She skulked into the loo.

The ladder to the bed above the sitting room creaked.
A broken beam of light filled with spraying blue green smoke cut a bias through the wooden room.

Black boots stomped heavily down the steps.
His long fingers lifted the tip of the hat, one palm cupped the bowl as the other greased his wavy Jesus hair out of his face. He leaned into the shade.

She waited for the click, turn, creak, step and slam.

She peeped out and then emerged from the bathroom.

Salt was the only taste on her tongue. Her ears were drenched and stung like hell.

She gazed up at the smoke line and took a small breath.

2019. Helen McNulty