What am I but alone?
I thought they wanted me
Because I’m special
But I’m not
And they don’t
What am I but alone?
A vain idiot
Haven’t seen much for a few (what they call) days,
The only reflection I ever see, (always see, cant escape, are swans still white?) is that bouncing round my sphreical prism,
my doughy loaf encrusted throughout with shards of tinted glass
Light beams rattle round, refract, constantly change, (pretty much) bend, twist, piroette, startle, appear, disappear, reappear, they stop and consider what they are and what they’re for, direction seems pointless, (they’re bored), they dream, they imagine
They whisper (and they scream) images into the black of my eyelids, they colonise them, spear their flag in and are met with no resistance, so I am now them and they are me
What do they reflect?
They shed light (haha) on skin which is pallid and terse, almost crispy like cardboard, plumped up by melted fat which flows viscous, slow and comfortable like cows milk, lovingly warmed to remedy an anxious night,
carbohydrate pimples (as round as a bosom) contour the pale cardboard, all over the person
All over its (almost) boneless structure, bones slowly dissolve in blood which pools and ferments like a stagnant, forgotten pond, subsuming an intact rib cage and clean, unbruised knuckles which try and let themselves known along long jelly fingers (the same yellow as holly Willoughby’s hair), attached to a blobby jelly palm (the same cream as the walls), attached to a long wobbling jelly arm of the jelly boy, the jelly boy
An arm which rises from between the sofa cushions, from between the duvet and pillows, escaping from the duck-feather ocean
Attempt, strain, strain,
Strain, strain, (try not to flop), strain to raise that jelly arm in the air as an argument which points like the end of a pencil, piercing through parentheses,
direction, difficult, upwards, forward, try and open your eyes jelly boy, try and think of outside:
Jelly boy tries to shout, jelly boy tries to talk about boris johnson in disdain, jelly boy tries to remember how to laugh at something other than the smell of his silent farts, and tries to write something distinct from suburban boredom, boredom, (inescapable boredom) because hes surely, definitely, certainly, (cmon, he must be), a bit more grown up??
an adult? a man?
Can’t do it… try…
Sweating sweat as sweet as neat orange squash
Ugh, cmon, c’mon
The weight of the strain is too much for jelly boys jelly muscles
Not made to move
He resigns to a sigh
The expels air which smells of secret, midnight cigarettes and tinned beer
the smell rises thick like a fume and makes jelly boy’s eyes roll back, roll back
pointlessly bend, twist, piroette, anonymously appear, disappear, reappear behind closed eyelids,
What else to do
But Surf the light beams in all their absurdity?
Surf the light beams because its something to do
Stagger down peckham highstreet as if it’s sutton’s
Drunk by the same spoons beer, same best mate, same sentimentality, the same revolutions of thought which caress and bite a goodbye kiss,
What better metaphor than the train I’m on?
Sitting across the seats so I’m perpendicular to the movement
Rolling past zone 2 terraces standing resolute and quantified, lit in an orange burning brighter than sodium ever could
I’ve packed up my suitcase,
It sits at my feet,
Pandora’s box and bag of sweets,
A pint glass clinked to a rock’roll dream,
Sportswear punk jumper needing a clean,
A new telephone with new missed calls,
Good gigs, empty rooms, peaks and pitfalls
Kicking our heels tryna find a foothole
Hard to do when the floors concrete
Licking teeth to taste yesterday’s dinner
Wince at the bitter, wince at the sweet
A glitter-face little-miss sits opposite and sways with each hiccup from the day’s spirit mixer,
Take her home, take her home,
Carnivals over and now she’s alone,
Take her home, take us home,
The parties over, now we’re alone,
Her eyelids slide shut
And I do the same
To apprehend eyeballs before they roll back
Instead, they’ll paint tomorrow morning’s sun
Ah fuck I’m 22
But hope’s still a solace
That wasnt it
Shall we get a beer?
But it’s 7 in the morning
Yeah but tomorrows boring and the corner shop’s near, 2017 is just another year, a poisoned liver is just another fear,
Two fifty, click click, cheers, cheers, clink, clink
Drink slips down and sits atop of a mixture ready to be pissed,
A liquid to be missed in the desert of tomorrows drought
We must look shifty out our heads at this time, here here, clink clink, cheers, cheers, drink, drink, echo of two mens footsteps sear, penetrate boys eardrums, reverberates round the humdrum
Let’s shed a tear son, because its me and you, its us and blues, moving through, its us and the black, moving forward, moving forward,
Where is there to go back?
Ewell silently dwindles like a dying fire with a shine as dead as an old copper, lost but not forgotten down the back of the sofa
At what cost?
A lot probably, but no need to tell me as the water which drowns the blue of your eyes tells all as it fights hard to extinguish the remnants of the wretched flames of a waste of time, waste of space, waste of place,
What are we gonna do?
I dunno about me, what about you?
Same with me too, look up at the moon, look down at our shoes stained by toes bloodied and blue from walking the streets in search for some truth
Truth’s a funny thing which doesn’t exist in a sentence,
Truth’s a thing claimed by lost souls trapped in pretence,
In actual fact its a thing which creeps up like this sun,
This sun made of the same flames as the tragedy been done,
Home now, here, here, clink, clink, cheers, cheers, drink, drink, tilt your chin up and I’ll do the same,
lets gulp down one last time to try and forget why we came,
To try and build up the courage to say,
To whisper, to scream, to let the world know our names,
Let’s shed a tear son,
because its me and you,
its us and blues,
its us and the black,
moving forward, moving forward,
No point going back