I dunno, I hate the cold, it sets into the core of my marrow, makes me wish for the morrowmorrowland of borrowing time, burrowing under the blankets cos the house is so fucking gold… even though I am living the sunshine.
No money here today, we’re all fucking poor again, and again, and again, and again, and again.
I was waiting at the shop yesterday, thinking that I really do live in the hood. I have waited outside that shop since I was billy the kid, hiding my cigarette packets under a bush across the road, but not smoking, nah, those empty packets were my toys. Forget about it, no real toys in the village just cigarette packets and empty cans of fizzy, playing like dolls…
…rolls outta the car and up to the counter, grabbing a handful of lollies while the Indian owner looks at the other hori, some cuzzy, walking in through the infrared buzzer.
I didn’t steal lollies much when I was a get busy child, cos I was a reckless snotty nosed black as tar nerd, heard me like a freshly shaven sheep, I blurred it all before a thousand lives before this one. This haven’s no heaven.
I remember telling my mum that I didn’t want to be brainy “cos people don’t like brainy people” (especially when they’re brown). And so that has been my modus, looking outta the window waiting to spin straw into ice-cold mornings and I feel like I just want to die right now cos it’s so fucking old, this feeling of funk, hunkered down for the splintered fragments, meant for someone else’s winter. That fairy-tale got all iced over anyway.
And that’s it right there, tis the season to reason myself out of strife, live a jolly old rifling through the filing cabinets for a moment in meandering, wandering through the steam that seeps like ghosts from the cracks in the mirrored memories of smashed dreams.
And so today I am actually working, it’s out of time those days of festering in forgotten piles of rotting eyelashes that fall from graceful wisps of blistered blinkings, the sinking feelings can go to hell.
I am over them anyway.
And so tomorrow and forever after I will remember new things that I’ll imagine into a new past. I dunno, this body memory of deficit dying is lying me to tears out the pages of that crusting old book, until cover to cover it is empty unwritten space again…I pace and pace and piece it all together until it’s all just peace, full stomach and brains that are going into overload, generating a spiral, dial 12 and talk to the operator…
…there’s no one home today, we’re all at werkin’ it out.