Wednesday, 5 August 2009

It's Not Always Like This

Couldn’t think straight any more. Sitting on the bus with so many people relieved to be out of work, on the bus after waiting too long… the jabbering, rustling leaves prickling my brain. Sometimes I sat there with a notepad, to write the thoughts I’d saved up during the day. But when it came to it, I didn’t have any thoughts more often than not.
I’d sit with a blank page. Some times words came out here and there. Like garlic pushed through a press, most of the garlic left squashed inside, trapped in the corners.
Getting off the bus. I fell into town. I walked fast. Nobody catch me.
The man come split down from sky. In the rain,
like glass. Split. The man came down spilt.
I stood in the rain spilt.
I couldn’t think no more.
He didn’t help me, just looked.
Day to day. The rain came down, in the shower, radox in my mouth, towel on my eyes.
My friend shouted at me in my sleep for not photographing ninjas with big swords when I got the chance. I had nothing to say to that. In circles we went in the field. I thought of ice - of a snow, a field in a time in the edge of my skull
Breakfast will always be breakfast. My legs are always walking out of the door, while I float on top, not paying attention.

It’s not always like this.

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