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Writing a poem on the back of a postage stamp wasn’t difficult I think,
It was the sending of it,
For now I have a head full of words and a tongue full of ink.
I dinnae stare blankly ahead, a dead giveaway,
Nor at the table travelling a’tween us.
I am lost, as it were, in the moment
Or give the appearance of being so.
Looking around when I alighted
I noticed the dozens like me..
Quilted nobodys wi’ woolly hats
From which hang twa plastic spheres.
Their music must be on awfully loud
For I can hear the hissing fits of it
Conjoined with the jolt of the train
The racket meeting a juddering clackit.
But now am fair settled here, next a window,
Passing the time wi’ ma Bluetooth ear muffs
Smiling away tae ma sel’ listening tae nuthin’
But the drivel that falls out of folks lips.
An feelin’ glad that I havnae got a mobile.
To taste each breath, roll the air around the mouth, make each lungful count for something bigger than oneself is the aim. Always has been. That blood – oxygenated and heady – with ingredients of a life force, the instigator of thoughts, of feelings, of desires, racing through veins and arteries with purpose.
Alexa has no empathy
No algorithm for morose.
She has toyed with my emotions.
My request, “Crying”,
Returned as, “Get Down On It.”
Seems like only the other day
That she got my mood in one,
When I commanded, “Imagine”
Alexa said, “Back to life (Back to reality).
I admit that she perked me up that day,
But that moment was transient.
I tire of her incessant cheerfulness;
She knows I have no legs.
So here I am, in this smoke filled room,
Alexa is dead, “Bang Bang (I shot her down)”
“Let’s Dance” having barely left her lips.
Here lies the self I became.
By the open window, the self who sees
All of my other selves at play.
The gate of the confident self.
An egotist who carries his arrogance
Lightly, contented in a way.
A worried self whose eyes lower,
Looking inwardly at the aching –
The parceled guilt, unopened.
The smell of bleached academia
As that self unravels universal rules
By equations never before seen.
A book worm self who imagines
His way into his own world
Through the adventures of others.
Glowing into the centre of attention
Comes the dapper self not yet aware
Of people turning their heads away.
The window is closing, I hear it.
Conversation dwindles, then ceases,
Between me, myself and I.
As I trample on the fallen leaves,
Breaking what was left of their hearts,
Over the water, around the trees,
Who seem indifferent to my being there,
The gathered grey of our lives together
Swirls in abstract formation trying to
Coalesce into some solid, touchable matter.
I can taste the coming coldness.
Staring at it now
I can see the flaws.
You have to do something
In order to regret it,
Enjoy a moment
To capture its opposite.
My paintbrush climbs hills,
Sees the sunshine that I do not,
Creates blue skies
Where mine are grey.
Up close, I see the strokes
Where, fortuitously, colours bled
Into each other as if somehow
They knew that together was better.