Start writing…
I didn’t bother with much of a title but I started writing as you can see
But I’ve forgotten how to write, or rather I think it’s forgotten me
Start writing…
Next to the damn curser, every new fricken line, start writing, start writing… but how to finish cleverly this time…
…stop writing.
Mind the gap
For there is a place
A slit in time
With an empty space
Sending you through
In a unknown direction
Travelling sideways
To another dimension
Mouth it clearly
But don’t make a sound
Commute this
The London Intheground
The traffic rushes by
Like the memories in my head
And the day is upon me
As soft tyres lose their tread
All the roads blur smooth
Like yesterdays future news
And the day is upon me
What rushes is still in cruise
All i know is…
And all you know
is what i show
In the here and now…
That moment before the future,
That directly succeeds the past.
If you’re lucky you’ll even catch it,
Through its travel; though it never lasts.
An old cassette tape, when the light catches it handsomely it looks silvered and bronzed like a monument with little dates of significance.
The time is half-past-something or a quarter too, and the day really doesn’t care for its name.
Then I recall Septembers, that this September; the breeze has been as gentle and warm as breath exchanging from lovers in loose conversation.
Randomly, I feel a surge of discomfort within the thought of the inability to appreciate anything, while I continuously slip comfortably into taking average daily life for granted.
Three army helicopters throb, thunderously overhead. They pass in a mini apocalypse parade; for a moment the suburb is drowned with the sound of their rota-blades, the atmosphere feels as if it’s expanding in its protestation.
The air chooses to relax; dropping its noisy luggage, only to float upon its regular self, I notice from beyond my open window, two female voices; unexplainably but noticeably middle-aged, and motherly, using vocabulary that only just resembles my native tongue. I think perhaps that I’ve momentarily forgotten to understand my language.
Since stepping on time; i’ve slid forever. My soles drip with nanoseconds; soaking my shoes of aging leather.
My feet; creased and soft, had flattened a balding patch of spikey, dry grass. What’s more, in the dying light; a magnificent faltering bulb of a lowering watt. I created a sundial. My shadow had clocked-me-late, but ever-so carefully, and was fading out (with never a so long or cheerio). The burning star descended in my peripheral, until it hung in its laziest position. Since then, a peculiar theme; as my markered profile has yet to return in daylight; now forever it seems i’m followed by white outlines that duplicate my body in play and in still; from moon or moonless light.
He was all of eighteen summers,
She: just seventeen short winters.
In love; he connected fully with spring,
In love; her longing best served in autumn.
Together they lasted all but four seasons.
And yet years later; as they recall,
They’re split was for no reason at all.
I Eat Let.ers 