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.
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.
She used to be…
… but he’s not like that anymore.
I suppose we all think of the decisions we made or didn’t…
Unaware of their innate fate.
Your days where you’ve learned hard lessons; their impossibly unique circumstances.
The world then lead up to the fact,
and it still didn’t happen.
“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.”