If you were to
put me
in a white room
with a white door
and floor
nothing to do
see
touch or
say
Somehow
I would still
fuck
everything up
After the airport
1
Category Archives: 2007
No translation
Bags full, I leave the cheque, and
out to the park
cars filling each space
egos filling empty cars
But there’s no wait
on a cycle, and so I’m off
having stuffed the panniers
full of good things, and beer
to carry out
and carry on.
Luncheon
I spent yesterday lunchtime sat on a corpse, eating a period preserved in vinegar.
Its surprising that, in the time I’ve worked around the corner from the University-owned churchyard in the city of [this place], I’d not before used it as somewhere to sit. Students and staff alike were out in force, and the inhabitants had plenty of company for once. My only slight disapointment was the lack of certainty that the sandwich – purchased because the rather fine Japanese food stall had been towed away – contained free range egg mayo.
There is no artistic value to your life
That’s what they said at the end.
There was no point
They said, at the
end
No purpose, or
meaning
and
everything around
had been a big joke
an aesthetic decision
that nobody made
Amended 16 November 2020
Jealousy makes you sick
And you
the sickest of all
action watching actions or
navigating text
eyes
editing truth
meaning
and the comments
of others
sicker
daily
than before
a growth on your foul head
and a wait, for
the fall
amended 16 November 2020
Wake.
My tail is
wagging and I
can smell something
good
which maybe
is my own arse
Noises from off, and I bark
and wag
and bark
whilst she or he breaks sleep
My favourite time of the day
I scratch at the door but no-one answers
so I circle and then sit, and
lie
and start to think about my life
My favourite contemplation
Till eventually – and ever so
exciting – they come in and
see me and i jump and they pat me
and then he leaves and she pours
liquid
and again
and then i jump again
because its my favourite part of the day
and she sits with me and
strokes my head and
tells me everything
And as it
goes on
today as before
I think that
maybe they don’t have
a favourite in their day
3rd week of the holiday
21 days after the first meeting with the Colonel, I found myself astride his still warm corpse, the beaten heart ripped from his chest and held aloft as a cheer leader holds a pom pom. Those about me gave noises of appreciation, but the loss of this once great man made me sick to my stomach, a wretching worstened by the inevitablity of his decline.
Mr and Mrs Chuckle engage in “the act”
To me
To you
To me
And so on, for maybe a minute of entertainment.
Wednesday sees the dustmen powdering the road. The noise of the lorry wakes me and, as usual, I have to run outside to place the bin on the pavement else it will be missed.
This morning it is heavy, and groans as I tilt it towards me and bounce it down the steps.
I open the lid, and look inside, forgetful of what rubbish I have collected over the past week, but confident enough that none of it should be shouting at me.
The bin seems empty to its depth, but darker than normal inside. And deeper.
That’s strange, I think to myself. I can smell sulpher, and the cries when the lid is flipped open seem to be those of tortured souls. I wonder, briefly, whether Guantanamo Bay has been relocated to my wheely bin, but it seems unlikely, as there are no protesters nearby.
No option, then, but to leave it out for the lorry and see what happens. I only half hope that it won’t empty out the contents of hell outside my house, but its a risk that I take, not having yet had a coffee or being properly awake.
Never finished
It was the the first late evening with
transport dragging them apart.
I have to go.
Existence summed, then
but no matter for
we can all ignore
the deterministic
It was lovely.
Holding close, lips
touch for the first
and a new journey.
Amended 16 November 2020