I’m disquiet in the realisation of the futility of teaching the youth, younger each year, they’re imprinted with antiquated ideas of the past, growing evermore ancient and defunct.
Same thing today,
as leaves grow in May,
In light I
It’s funny that time evolves all wounds,
We’re thought to heal as a species but we grow carcinogenic,
we grow old and weary of struggle.
We grow tired.
It was wondrous the ever lasting years of yellow dawn,
a love effervescent tickling smiles from a forlorn furrowed brow -a perma-scowl.
and as things fall apart,
I recall it was from the start, we knew of the pre-existing doom
of us two,
we used delusions, positive illusions to negate a real reality.
are all struggles growth? as my hearth flickers hot and cold,
if I am to endure, what besets me? I don’t know if to bestow upon myself
that which draws a weary yawn
as dusk creeps over
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.
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.