Seven minutes of sun

This thing inside

Will not let me just go

At my own pace

Allow me to wait

And consider the days

Or nights

Like a lost pair of socks 

Unexplainable in their absence 

Weighing on me like the ocean 

On a deep sea diver

And as used to this as I am

It will never make sense 

This thing within me

For so long

Continues to push me outside

Too early

In advance of any need

My timings  

My boxes

My rules 

My law

As I find myself early

Again

Always 

Stood waiting for the train

With 7 minutes to kill

And even that

As small a moment as it is

What a waste of time in itself

I stand in the sun to at least

Try and make it somehow

Worthwhile

Draft

 

My subconscious has taken a beating

It lies bleeding on a rainy side street 

 

But it is not the first time

And so I know we’ll catch up again 

Sooner rather than later

 

In the meantime I am left alone 

With these median memories 

Nothing old 

Nothing new

A haunting 

A distraction

Guilt upon guilt 

Bad choices made with such 

Vigour and self belief 

 

My honesty now much greater 

Than when these images were made 

 

These cliche tonal photographs of

Unlined unloved faces 

Creating magic and running toward raging flame

Displayed on every street I pass

 

Choose…

 

Cake for dinner

I am old now

I have outrun my guilt and so

Drink my tea and wait for my subconscious to 

Catch 

Up

 

 

And all of me is left behind

 

With every drop of happiness

Every small moment of contentment

Comes this laughable realisation

That these moments

Fleeting and irrelevant

from years ago

Dictate my current state

 

Without effort or malice

I am me back then

Myself a million years ago

 

And now

 

And still

 

And so are you

 

I wish I could erase all

These false memories

Superposition

It’s both things all the time

Because I am this and that

I am a feather in someone else’s cap

I was never a writer just

Someone falling through various thoughts

 

Some of which caught on

The frayed edges of my being

On my way down

Because it is always spinning

IT

Is always spiralling out

 

The non-definitive centre of yourself

Never stopping

Only the speed varies

And that

Despite popular belief

We can in fact control

 

It’s just that most of the time

It’s more fun not to… 

 

 

 

 

 

End of the world

 

They never have the good olive oil

I’m trying to be healthy and I can’t get the virgin olive oil

I mean

 

I walk to the beaten down tough as shit guy in the company blue shirt stacking whatever the fuck onto dusty shelves

‘hey man, you guys don’t keep the good oil anymore?’ 

 

He jumps up with the energy of someone ready to die or kill

‘Yes Yes! We have!’

And scurries out through the nearby metal swing doors - reappearing 2 minutes later with the bottle of extra Virgin

 

‘We can’t keep it out, people keep stealing it…’

He looks at me, equal parts confusion and embarrassment, 

and hands it over

 

‘Wow, really. End of the fucking world’, I say

He doesn’t even smile.