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.
He said, “Wait a minute!” I’m not waiting in that sitting room, I’ll be over there, sitting in the waiting room — I can take the weight off my feet!”
While sitting in the waiting room, the waiters were busy waiting to set the table; as so he didn’t have to wait (because that’s what waiters are supposed to do!).
Then, they could wait on him.
The weight on him was something else! The waiters had noticed that while they waited for him to choose where he wanted to sit!
Eventually, his table was ready, but only after waiting for everybody else to finish and leave where they were sitting; typical, because that’s only where he wanted to sit!
Eventually, after an excruciatingly long decision on what he wanted to eat, whatever he happened to choose was off the menu. Three unwanted, overcooked meals followed, and with every excruciating wait the waiters arrived decidedly — very much late.
Before the bill, everyone fell ill, and in the end, all that waiting killed them (quite literally) in just one sitting. Much, much later they were carried off the establishment; in bags… none the less, only for the ambulances that carried them away to breakdown — in impassable traffic… what rotten luck!
Late summer bugs
Lazily in ale
Under chilled verticals
Daggers of British rain
Flooding them magnetic
With microscopic futures
Billions of batches
To impossibly dense
Wolds of forestation
Of extraordinary family trees
Slowed to pause