Six hundred

The rules governing ones

Own behaviour

And how they obstruct happiness…

The very definition of

Getting in your own way

It is better to be like water, I know

But most days I

Desire so badly to be the brick wall

I can taste the grit and plaster on my

Tongue

And while mass stupidity is rife

In my immediate environment

-          A hamster wheel of idiots

One dropping out, only

To be replaced without delay

By another replica dummy

This is my every week, and

On the weekends snow no longer falls

While the countryside drowns

Meanwhile they build up this town like 

MEGA CITY ONE

Soon to have underground engines added

Blasting the whole population skyward

All this

And the rising sea

And the great depression

And World War 3

And the death of the Sumatran tiger

And the only thing on my mind

Is whether or not eating 600 bananas a year

Is too many

I swear to god…

January thirteenth

Yeah, well. Here we are one year later. I guess to the day, but the doctors aren’t always right about everything are they. We only have that scribbled piece of paper to go by. I still have part of you here with me, a small pill box in my top drawer on which your brother penned your full name in simple calligraphy.

I am still thinking of where I should finally put you. To let you rest. But then the question… just one place? Or do I take you here and there, to the roads where we sat for hours on the curb, and the fields you would walk me through.

All of these places I realised long ago, were outside - far from both our homes. We only ever felt free while walking away. But I can’t really leave you in the park, or the castle ruins or windblown hillside, because it’s supposed to be somewhere you were happy isn’t it? And looking back, seeing the ghosts of our memories of this place, I struggle to remember where that was.

The beach I suppose. You were never any good in the city. From what you would write me, the sand and rocks and tide were the only constant for you. Looking out into nothing maybe the closest thing to solace. Waves taking you away from the land behind you. Always shifting. An always open door. So until I can get to the right place, I will just have to keep you for a little longer, in the only other place I knew you to be happy. Here, with me. 
I am in no rush to let you go.

Logic blues.

The phone will not ring.

After days of waiting

It rang an hour ago.

That conversation now ended.

My stomach begins to settle,

Awaiting the cycle of the tide

To return.

Maybe now, I’ll eat again.

On paper it is

All so

Simple.

It really is.

Clear as day and twice as sharp.

What they want,

What you have to give,

It all fits. Or at least you make it so.

But later you decide whilst

Somewhere beneath bedcovers,

To darken the ink a little more.

Make your mark.

Then it all falls down. Because

They do not want the real

You,

They want the list.

For it is the BULLET POINT

The CHECK BOX

That they require.

Your petty humanity can stay home

Thanks.

Maybe it’s intentional -

The cut nose/spite face

Pattern. When

You know

Really

Truly

That you could do better.

But really

Truly

Why the fuck should you

Do better, just for them.