No matter how much time you spend
Listening to instrumental synths,
Italians Do It Better, Disasterpiece, M83,
Painting the walls in neon,
Green, red, thick coats of moody blue,
Watching the rain from windows,
puddles forming through the night,
Cars won’t fly, robots won’t cry, holograms won’t pry
For the dystopia you crave is already here, romance free.
And those synths won’t set you free.
I know, take it from me and my Deckard coat, hanging from the door which never closes.
Choking on food in a public place, it’s one of those scenarios no one wants to be in. Being murdered by the food that one loves.
But it isn’t so much about the dying on pizza crust, chicken goujon, such poorly chosen words that makes it such a bad way to go.
It’s being surrounded by the ones that you love, and the strangers nearby. It’s bad performance art, and everyone has to squirm their way through your suffocation. Maybe as they watch you keel on the floor, they may wonder who will be paying the bill, rather than if everything will be okay. Maybe strangers will ask a waiter to go over to quiet things down, give a little ‘shh’ or a ‘I’m sorry, but please can you choke elsewhere?’ That sort of thing.
And if someone happens to Heimlich manoeuvre the block in your throat, well, what can you say as everyone watches? Will you thank them? Will they applaud? Will you carry on eating what came before? Will it even be brought up again?
So please, next time I’m up there choking, come on over and grip my throat tight. Make it quick so I can hear everybody cheer.
There is a touch of lag in this game of life.
One step forwards lands a day too
When it comes to pouring coffee
The cup has already moved. The burning sensation couldn’t
warn scorched hands.
And when decisions are final
Those memories have already been made
Just make sure the
floor you land
Is the same one you
Blame it on the lag
It won’t feel so
Drop everything and come with me.
Drop all those chores.
Drop the weights in your hands
Drop the baggage from your past
Drop what keeps you down on the floor
Drop it all Continue reading
The all or nothing approach to life allows no compromise, you either win or lose.
But when those all’s are so small, when the nothing is your status quo
Lying down in the mud must feel so good. Looking up at the stars must hurt so much.
And all or nothing, well, dead is dead, win or lose.
That’s how I play.
I wake up and I must murder purple rats from bed to bath.
I walk to work and find myself late due to wild boars and bears.
I work out and every two StairMaster steps I see malevolent muscles.
I white out when I can’t make tea due to poison snails at my feet.
Random battles, without them I’d be free.
They say if you look up in the cities, you will see great beauty through architecture.
Hidden statues, Latin words, smooth marble curves.
But looking down isn’t so bad either.
Different types of dirt, coloured gums, discarded pennies.
Either or, I like the floor.