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.
“The way I see it is all this race stuff is a social construction, an illusion used to divide and dominate.
If it’s constructed it’s made up by someone or some group, so we can choose to not believe it and perpetuate the lies.
Yes we’ll still and always be in the system but we can stop adding to the delusions it creates, delusions of worth, beauty and ability.
We having this conversation means that at the very least aware of it,
and at best we will start to pass our awareness to others,
slowly breaking the too long told narrative of race and worth.”
With rise and fall of right and all
Moving on again to its peak from finish
I wonder if your love for me will diminish
As in the past some of us were strung
upon the most local yew
and I fear I will be forever a hue askew
from the rest of you.
come the hours of calm.
Where the ether is still,
still enough to see its reflection.
Minds and fingers twitch,
the heady rush of this world’s
many tempting deaths, abandoning reality,
in return to the cold sobriety of the bedroom ceiling.
Half-hearted, I half-listen,
to your half-stories,
for the whole time you’re here.
At half-one, you half-know,
I half-care, what you say,
it’s halflife, too long life,
for me to wish to stay.
This day half-cast, brings half light,
sat half lotus, thinking half-baked,
about half-truths, I half-know,
that I still repeat to myself today
Will I be half-arsed, or half-keen
today’s halftime ‘s, but daydreams
as whole-hearted, I half pray
since I’m half man, half the day…
My eyes finally prized open.
The judgmental clock face
shows me pm, and half a day
The morning now purely theoretical,
the sun half way passed,
before I’ve spoken my first word,
or taken my morning coffee
As a newborn, blanketed in last night’s haven
through the social threads
of this already passed morning.
He’s accomplished nothing,
his life a watered downs success,
a “skidder” was it?
His hands filled and emptied
in times unrelenting passing.
The smartest man in the room
-the pin his satin lapel sports.
A cut glass vernacular
affected by a crude Kingstonian drawl.
He amongst his Muji décor,
pours Oolong tea in a sole cup.
His community an artificial complex
continuing his saga of solitary emancipation.