Nothing, it’s all a social construction. Nilhism comes second. I’m tired, Barnes says I’m fed up, but I’m not. I’m just lonely, lonely with a home. Home is where the criticism is. Through ether and Ash. I escape twice. I say I won’t… when my home is my own… I say… criticsm is infectious. That may be my addiction, I asked my best friend if I was a good bad friend, to improve… Ensuite anxious regret. I’ve justified paranoia. I’m right!
But I degress from the day, today. I find myself on my way. An unconscious decision aroused from a fuck it & go and an arriving tram.
I know at times I take on your faults. I believe. I change. I see you don’t.
I sip your poison. It doesn’t kill me, not yet.
We’re an infinity of caramel limbs and cream cotton sheets.
Curtains curtailing hail and sleet
the world knocking at the window of our whispered softness.
The fan heaters on, you said you were cold naked.
Perhaps we’ll have pancakes for brunch,
Times moved on since you last entered my arms.
When you return I’ll make you chai tea, the one
your hands taught mine.
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