I don’t know if she likes the morning, nor if I do either.
But today’s a clear peach and pastel blue.
It seems the toll of work and divorce have hollowed this Lucian girl.
Our Blue Mountain blend yet to be had.
She has a home, sons and plans to renovate.
In the morning she’s ripped from the sanctuary of the night’s implausible ether
Again she all anew performs perfunctory morning routine. Awoken defeated.
Silence paralyses, or so it would seem to those with empty papers and momentary words.
A reprieve in a blink of summer, the drudgery of the United Klouds vacate.
I’ve rediscovered my world, as if a marital feud ceased with a glance of all its bounty.
Beauty, peace and a true love, I cry in refrain.
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
the dawn.
It’s hard to look back. I now realise near midnight recollecting the face you never showed me it to engrossed in Instagrams glare. I’m bleary, deciding to Mobb Deep, not podcast as an familiar unknown middle age white lady stares me down. I must be occupying her place. She’s unaware of my staff badge, my shirt and tie hidden by my threatening winter coat.
You two couldn’t be farther apart, together on the crampt carriage East. Your trousers yawn a permanent gape, exposing what I hope are sports shorts. You hair has a crispy sheen, unevenly wetted locks and relaxed tufts taming what was never wild.
But your neighbour’s a combed coiffed quiff, an Essex swirl, the kinda pompous pompadour you see in cafe’s, fairly highly priced for a coffee ceded in an unfair trade. He’s out the window, with eyes following all absent from us; must be nice; while my nearing obnoxious eye never see yours, still fixed in your iPhone glow. To him we’ve all melted away, as if his dream pursues the tram. On mass we unperturbed by the black buzz cut grandma no one offered a seat.
I’m drawn back to you with a fond aversion. I lament the shirt that’s a bit yellow from Thursday’s turn, pristine Nike hoody, Blazer latticed with scratches and from stints as a goal post, black Air Force school shoes matching the hood and skin. Sir Attenborough taught me when you’re bottom you’re barely surviving.
My eye lingers on, saving data, living outside. You grin, your head lifted and drifting to the side. You touch his arm and he looks at your iPhone, you both look, laugh, look again, laugh again. He looks back out the window and you back to your glow. I’m sorry.
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.
…Today?
It is.
It just
is.
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.
Of the most forgiving of us
it is to turn the other cheek,
Only be slapped anew.
Perhaps soon we’ll turn to Che
or those solemn folks from the IRA
learning lessons of fire and ice.
J.C. FitzDerick 