Feeling sorry for myself
a weekend of excessive drinking in
I reflect on life’s banalities.
My psychological hang-over
Worse than the pain in my gut, the ache in my limbs
Moving through society
Completely outside of it
No clear function…an appendics
An evolutionary cul de sac, no doubt
Hopefully
…though I doubt that word.
I wonder at the useless efficiency of
The lazy bus, meandering down to
Having done this journey hundredths of times
- no rush, no rush -
Stops every 50 metres
Do people walk these days?
The underground, with its distinct lack of character
Just an efficient series of dark tunnels
Carrying rats, with expressionless faces
To their pointless events,
they are so eager to attend
“Those dying generations”
…but nowadays no one sings
To the country barn of Gatwick
I am herded into a low cost airline
Overtly overly-friendly staff
I drink wine from a plastic cup,
eat a hot panini hosted by a cryptic wrapper.
Every year I see a new wrapper on something
yet they never get easier to open.
But my book is enjoyable; Boyd’s “Any Human Heart”
A journey like mine
In a less, or more, efficient time
In a more or less similar voice
of lonely desperation
At what? Who knows. Who cares.
My brother phones and we chat.
He is of a more secure ilk
Does not answer his questions
Or question his answers
Does not listen to his doubts
Does not doubt, perhaps
I’d like that.
His heating is broken, he tells me
as he walks back to his empty, cold apartment
Devoid of his Fiancé for over a year now
having met a friend with a dying marriage
I think, In the end, it’s sadness that prevails the most.
Entropy of emotional life.
I open my bottle of red wine.
16.12.07
No comments:
Post a Comment