I everyday run for the bus. Pouring out the café, a quick stream to the next leg Lateness a subtle concern, a moment ago leafing through Du Bouchet next slicing my shoulder to spud the oyster reader. Punctual to the bus stop, though the bus dropped me a couple minutes late…
It’s been a week and two days since I had an informal chat about punctuality. It may be 2-4 minutes, I maintain they’re negotiably mine. Hours I put in as a nocturnal volunteer forgotten.
This morning I’m on a slightly different route, with a homemade moka pot macchiato, I should be on time now. My time is my own.
I’m unsure about next week. Routine defiance I suppose. A temporal fuck you of four-five minutes. A statement of ownership. An affront to money & management’s side-eye.
The more I see the new face of the new old Labour Party
I wonder through the veneer of his autocued grimace if it’s all new at all.
8:30 AM and I watch through a mist of resentful defeat,
another facet of this unflinching emotionless machine
A workhouse for the working-poor’s prise possessions.
Afar I see the small distorted faces of those told of their malevolence and evil,
those encouraged to leave quietly,
to think of others, to not make a fuss, being quietly squashed by professionalism’s conformist heel.
The Ruling White Males don’t let a glance escape
an eye’s notice a reserve of punishment and discipline;
too valuable for the mundane pleasantries of the young’s every day.
The Black Females, they’re the Bad Kids,
overly loud, tactile and quite too negroid, their hair illegal fitting
A culture unfitting of moral good behaviour.
It seems the Blacks hate the Gays says the one of the Ruling Males,
the division lies in the beholders blind eye,
unaware that many are one in the same.
Nevertheless, the swathes of young cease,
the school’s front quietens,
the Congolese Janitor closes the gate The Males left open.
I suppose it’s inevitable
like the earth pulling sky towards you. Dissent,
in pursuit of ascension.
Anguish laden dew lingering post impact.
Uneasy, our shoulders nervous -as an Atlas shifting his load.
Our mind the centre of elusive effort
Settled sedentary memories recalling leisure’s illegal occupation,
Ethereal abuse from figures existing in the moments between unfocused blinks.
Though with the swipe of keys and the addition of words
the sky’s smokey hue trembles a forgiving azur.
The opened hand allowing the clearing of stale air
That’s the thing about drugs,
They seep to your core
a reflection of failure – the image obscure in smoke.
I enjoy the plastered amusement. The transient pleasure exhaled in a silent destructive whisper.
It’s all the same, it just fizzed with a velvet stroke.
My lungs swell exhaling a putrid air.
Tonglen, perhaps, a reversal of states.
I’ve years yet to die.
But I wonder if these years between freedom and cold expulsion draw nearer.
I’m the same as the year before
My inspiration stands unperturbed by the hanging tranquil haze.
Can this be what it’s become?
I know it’s not.
It’s never easy meeting a fallen kindred spirit, their face reflecting your soul
For those who look
You can see the mirrored minutae of you
Often I feel they’re unseen, we all stuck looking for the reflection of our Facebook self.
A glossed fiction unfound in others unfounded in reality.
Still I see myself in the fleeting gloss of your lonely eye.
It like the an old friend who once looked upon me.
It’s been while since we’ve spoke,
I wonder… because if stigmatised truth or dearth of substance.
I feel it’s the subject, it turned an obscure ombre.
A minds regard of the quiet clandestine workings of a wandering eye.
And a relative conscious.
I read love poems of devotions and pure affection. They too like the gloss movies, a reality away from the compromises and warmth of daily love.
In fiction it vanquishes all, but I see it beaten by jealousy, pettiness and self pity.
A sacred pantomime we all dance to, I’ve found mine but still I wonder.