When the car stopped, they dared not open their eyes.
Its been some considerable time since I’ve written any commentary about the day to day. After all, the poetry is my documentary, and for the periods when the pen is silent, I am probably dead.
But, that aside, some changes have occurred. One that can be published here is that I no longer live in the original city of this place, having moved, last year, across the road* to a new place. This place. Of course.
*In this instance, the road is indicative of a geological boundary, as well as a means of transport.
The old place – or That Place, as it is now known – is a past whose memories can be kept alive as only the happiness of guilt and regret can muster.
We stand, to
shadow the ground with our looks
The sun burning our skin with
not yet that cancer to come
others, who we know
or at least, acknowledge
A sharing of
time, already too limited
and ideas of
And what could
We lock ourselves
inside the world
for days, and dazed
at the thought,
and the fear
We looked into the window but the figure didn’t respond. Swathed in the most expensive of that season’s goods, it looked blankly to entice a materialistic world to enter the shrine and make offerings for the religion of credit. Nothing to do but to purchase. Besides, even the churches charged entry on a Sunday, now that God was just a figure selling entry to a tourist attraction.
There is new excitement building.
Amidst everyone and
The chatter and charge of
He, alone in the crowd
Quietly so as not to disturb
Or let loose the reflections that others could see
And when it comes
Down to brass tacks
The facts having been laid bare, or
Presumed for another year
Of the happiness ahead
And of its when, and where
If you’re not on the first page of google, you might as well be dead.
I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m running out of time.
The fever set in early this time around; all of the players were affected. They all looked beaten before they’d started.
The blog is updated.
I must not be dead.
Unless I am haunting you.