I sit and wonder what would be considered a radical line
in England,
quaint model village outside of red smoky danger cities -
fine rain soaking wet through or
vague warm sunlight filtering between thick green coppice
and mugs of grey tea.
perhaps a curseword or two but then the smug smell of in-joking
and superiority of poetic licence like naked glass shatters -
and the go-to of a word has been reclaimed
by those who use it only ironically
like chat-up lines or masturbation or when the introvert
goes drinking thinking of how good a memory he is currently
actively involved in, pre-pubescent scrapbooking of the feeling -
seeking some spark, something to spark the engines and whir the
cogs and motors he knows are lodged in that bonnet of his.
would falling from a first-floor window crack the skull enough to let a little of the life out?
the danger-red big smokes appeal but only at noon, when residents fill busy streets and muggers
like discovered spiders stand still and scurry on inspection -
when the roads are lit and the way home is easy and commuting is comforting,
a chair away from home --
and a roundabout way of asking a girl out on a date involves losing her after midnight
then the next morning heavy with the burden exhaustion stumble on the discarded laptop in the corner,
gritted with hair and skin flakes and breadcrumbs,
try and enforce tone into the toneless whisper of pleading pixels --
hey, how's tricks? Do you want to go out for a drink sometime next week? -
blow all you can into the motherboard and lose it down the cord -
and maybe the radical line is lost in the networked niche
and the model village is actually on flickr -
the usually perturbed have segregated themselves beg for outrage and and apology
rather than create the risk of a criticised moment.
would you rather be published, or read?
the thin trickle of influence from your short literary history slides down your front and over your navel, onwards down to the floor and flows like a bloody river in front of you and away down the incline of the country, north to south.
the quaint, antiquated, and lazily nostalgic dappers -
roll up and down with new venom and mischief, travel, say hello to the scruffy, leave the broom handle at home
and the almanac in the rubbish where it will weep.
then begin.
by reading this i believe its about noise pollution in a large congested city. stress is filled with the individual uncertain what this day means. lots of thoughts written down which i like. written down to escape the maddness in this congested world. my thoughts.