I found a note in my porridge.
Most (every) morning I start the day with a bowl of Quaker’s Oats porridge. I use one sachet to ensure I’m not being overindulgent, and it keeps me going till lunch.
A note fell out of the last sachet I tore open, like those toys used to do in cereal boxes. I felt it was merely excessive packaging, a manufacturing fault. But then I turned it over.
”Does this make you happy?”
Filling time with words
Filling time with sweat
Filling time with plans
Filling time with numbers
Filling time with people
Filling time with music
Filling time with boredom
Filling time with slumber
Filling time with lies
Filling time with meat
Filling time with masturbation
Filling time with boredom
Filling time with things
Filling time with building
Filling time with breaking
Filling time with pills
Filling time with breathing
Filling time with feeling
Filling time with laughter
Filling time with pasta
Filling time with Pete
Filling time with crime
Filling time with standing
Filling time with dying
Filling time with garbage
And time, it always leaks
So keep on filling
And you’ll just have to see
I’ll have nothing much else to say here, or there
I’m already scraping up the bottom of my guts
And when I dig through them I’m not finding much
Just the usual bits of chewed up words dissolving downstairs
For the words which are good, you have to poke the intestines
And I’ve never been so down to find things there.
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