Guess I Was

Never was a third reminder. Keeping it around for no reason in particular and have been doing so anyway. Maybe the line of vision wasn’t clear after all or at least that could explain it. But that’s only assuming we still think about it.

It’s into the brain first. The outside table was almost about to lift up – would’ve been toppled coffee cups and all that. Almost. Might have been nice though. Wonder what it looked like from the inside. Or how it sounded like to anyone else. But can’t help the lurching still: voluntary, involuntary… and all over again.

The same old tracks too. Or at least in the way we fashioned them in the space of that time. All the associations, reappropriations. When it was just nothing more than a few minutes really. Before waiting for the bus, slipped back into the underpass and looked up; saw. Light before the eyes but it’s already all over the head. A breath in and a nothing out.

Still there though. There goes the glide in slo-mo. Beautiful stuff and the right cutting and right color. Here’s a sea of black and white and a tall glass of Pellegrino to pass the words. Throw in an afternoon and perhaps a good few years too late into it. According to them, it’s half of the way which means half of where they’re getting to but also enough to make an up-in-the-air lunchtime invitation. Let’s say, if the curtain hadn’t so happened to be there or if the tube hadn’t so happened to break into a million pieces across the room, then what? Then we’d all have a whole set of new things that we could postulate if it hadn’t so happened. Doesn’t help the lurching still: voluntary, involuntary… and all over again.

Environmentally Friendly...

A commercial on the bus a few years ago told me the same thing – the world’s a better place without it and your mind’s a better place too. But the 33rpm keeps spinning and spinning and spinning these notes and words that float above the brain. When you’re thinking about too much you can’t think anything at all.

It was yesterday though. Reading people through the jackets they wear or the little black strokes they leave on rectangular bits of white paper. But no one saw anything wrong with that because it was not in the intention. Until it was. Not everything is something and life is so much more relaxing with that in mind.

Halfway to where they said we all should be at. Maybe it’s done already. I don’t mind. Maybe it’s no longer there, never was and never will be. But all these horizontal lines that spoke in red kept replaying it all again. A one minute walk through the sludgy grass after a nightful of rain.

The first, the second, the third reminder tomorrow. And I’ll forget all about it in the faint blue morning.

"Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi
in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Σιβυλλα τι θελεις; respondebat illa: αποθανειν θελω."

Down the Rope

Feels like a thousand and a gray sky full of them.

Waiting for a few blue lines for the more-than-enough-th time. Pain in the bones for the empty days and then what? Then nothing. Blue card, blue curtains, blue lines. Blue nothing.

Not really here though. There’s something in the back of our minds, saying we’re in the nipping cold of the side street again. Behind some strange looking bronze figurines and a busload of strangers. There’s the wind again. Who was it who said that? “No one is anything.” Oh wait, I remember. I need to read the whole thing sometime soon. Perhaps it was wrong all this time. Pencil, pen, paper again. Remember November with an hour to wile away, tucked beneath some red-brick building. It’ll always be here.

It goes again. Like the dip. And a myriad of happenings on the other side of the coffee drinking glass. More scraps of paper dotted with black spots and what-nots. “There goes the sun” – yes, past tense. Wonder where it went but the sky’s a lovely shade without it. The sky’s a lovely shade with it too. Hell, it’s lovely always.

Back to the blue lines and how to make some sense of it. It’s not a verse sometimes – can’t go about it the same way and mark it up with pen and whiskey. It goes through my brain and your brain and his brain and her brain and what do you know?

We’re all just the same.