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f’kd
up
from a
defeatists standpoint…it
is
useless. from an
optimists…it
is
promising. from a
pessimists…it
is
hopeless. from a
realists…it is
a
wanton faze.
from mine…it is
f’kd
up!
misunderstood
whilst walking down a
typically
Welsh street, an untypical
phenomena occurs.
i, in my
capacity to
speak my
given
language, tend to understand
that
said language
and all its
configuration t’boot.
unfortunately they
talked, not in
english. not indeed in
any tongue
that i found
in any way representational as a
given dialect. yet
they understood, and
more to the point
enjoyed being part of that
tiny group
of understanding. i felt so
lost, so
alien, so given to
thirsting for their native
tongue. it was lost on
me. yet if
i spoke, they might
spake of like things. of weather,
of the such that becomes
all mankind.
i represent an
inferior something. a
something that
wonders on, yet
does nothing
to
counteract the
imbalance.
the dust collects
the dust collects
on my
vehicle that animates my
thoughts. i
supersede any notion, nay
idea to put into
practise all that
i preach.
i claim
my ignorance to
be
all that is
necessary to
forego the
inevitable. for in finding me
out, i
will then become
invisible once
more. the
need is neither
needed, nor expected
to be
just. for i
expect all
i get. all i
get is expected. nothing
comes along in huge
amounts.
i can
take only
so much
before i might
burst wide
open.
so…
work is so
boring. so
unlike
me. so
very
predictable. so
like me. so
boring.
classic entrails
in a classless
society, i
would be
existent as
a
classless being.
being a
class orientated
lot, alleviates
me to
the
station of
bum. a well
worked
station too, much
needed
by the
masses to
cajole and manipulate
into
varying shades
of their own
despair.
life
life. a
simple process it
seems. you tend to
be
born. a heart
begins to beat well
before then. it
continues, usually
unaided, ‘til
the expire date.
perpetual motion.
a much, much simpler
definition has
to
be…that we really
are
born to
die. but that’s
negativity eh?
can
can
another can, can
and will
alter the outlook.
another
can, can and
would place
me back
in a
familiar mode.
another can, can
and could be
a risk
taking
exercise. another
can, can and
may
be the final
act. another
can can…
i
idle away a day talking of death
today has been a death
day. i found out
that my
friend, a
very, very
good friend
(from my
past) had lost his
grandfather. my lift home
had come into
work speaking
of her
mammy. later we were to
find out
that her
mammy
was dying. in between both
a
lady told me
on the phone
of her husband
trying to kill
himself,
with the exhaust fumes
from his van.
when i woke this morning,
it was
not a death day.
now…
if i could i would
in plying
my
wares in public,
i should
be of
confident
mood. but the whole
point to the
display would
be
foolish, whence
tongue-tied.
i spake
not of
anything. the
quiet
became the
work. the
silence applauding
the
inaudible
gestures of my
mind.
somewhere within,
a
tirade
calls my
name. one
day i
might happen
upon
an answer for
it.
there’s
no point having a million pounds without a penny
if size were
everything, i
would
be of
no
consequence. as
it
is, the most
minute form has
to
retain
a
certain degree
of worth.
for without that
worth,
the
mention of
size and
its
importance then
renders the
commentator themselves, as a worthless
void. a
void dead
worth.
catch 22
far be it for
me
to say, but
the problem with
always
having to
comply, leaves
an empty feeling
within a
wanton
figure. the
static nature
of
conformity defies
any
natural urge
to
create. creation
is of
us. for without
it, we
are
unmoved. literally,
and
laterally. staid
and
fraught with
angst, we
contemplate
on what we know
we know. i guess
it’s a
no win
situation.
incommenting
i do nothing more
than
comment on life. it’s
frustrations, whims,
constructions,
functions,
immobilising
factors, altered states,
hoped for
happenings, and
affairs of
the heart. who is
there to justify
these comments? who
is there to give a
fuck?
one day
prolific a
writer as i am. pure
drivel,
more often than not. but
the
chance to
happen upon genius
must, and
will keep the
endless
and
necessary production
line in effect. one
day, i will be.
one day…i
might…
if…i?
george sings.
he sings of
jesus to a child.
i think of jesus
and
shake my
drunken head. i
should believe…if.
but “if” is
only
a big word, “if”
put into context against
i.
…and in it kicks…
when i awoke,
in a horizontal
position, the world
i existed in
seemed
fine. a woman
beside
me. a paid for
hangover
awaiting my
approval. then, and
only
then, when i
triggered off
its
action, did all hell
break loose. the
head, so full
of
sickness, the body
likewise. the
reluctance of
the
woman beside me. if
i
had had
a
drink handy, i might
of happened
upon it for sustenance. but i
didn’t. so i
suffer on
in
silence.
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