I was living in Devil town.

March 6, 2013 § 1 Comment


Bright Eyes at Oxford Brookes

Bright Eyes at Oxford Brookes (Photo credit: jamesgrayking)

Anchor men spike their blood, wear masks of mud, cucumbers cut to fit their eyes so know would know how tired they’ve grown of talkin’ and tellin’ their lies.” – Trees get wheeled away – Bright Eyes

My hope is past and present but it’s place in the future is uncertain. At the moment, however, it is stead fast and strong and invested solely in the hope that the words will set me free. It’s the hope that kills you, you know? I read in the paper that the pessimists will out live us all. Their punishment for the lack of hope? More of the same. This one is bleeding out a little more morbid than the rest. Public life is staying in character, private life is letting yourself slip only as far as you can get away with. I’ve been looking for someone to light me up. Someone to burn the proof of the things that I’ve done. That’s me tonight. I stare at the floor of her North London flat. The noises around me rattle around and I wonder how I came to this. They say all roads lead to Rome, if that’s true I must still be on my journey. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t take the road. No road, no rail, but roads in a wood, the past less traveled was mine. No difference was mine. Oh poetry, there’s a beauty in you. It isn’t in the word play or the exclusive nature of you. It’s in the sadness. It’s that look in the poets eye that makes you think that maybe, just maybe, he or she might go home, and take their final steps, just to prove that all along, they meant it. I drift between notes. Those notes that hang in our brains to remind us of the tasks that we are taking this week. I try and focus a little less on the poets fate. That way I don’t narrow my choices and my aim and leave myself with a little more. I get a little sad sometimes. Have you noticed? Of course you have. Any regular reader should. Would. Shares that mood. It’s not Hollywood sad. It’s not bubblegum sad. It’s not childish sad. It’s poet sad. It’s the dull dragging sensation. It’s the lost school sad but without the desperation. It’s the apathetic disapproval of my life. It’s dangerous. There is no more cruel feeling than apathy. Hate show feeling. A caring as to what happens to something. Apathy is too cold to care. I wonder how I slipped to this. When I lost my ambition. When I lost it. How I lost it. How I can flutter between bouts of happiness and low low low. Books don’t help. That passive frustration seeks in along with the lost loneliness. Fuck. This isn’t how this ends. I’m sure of that. I know, grow up, it’s not so up and down, some people have real problems. Some people have real problems. “Once bitten twice shy” echo’s a boys voice in a memory from the night before. An unexpected burst of poetic reasoning. There’s hope. I wondered if it was a distant diagnosis from a very talented person. Fuck. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be like this. It’s just sometimes, I feel that should I put my feelings on here then they will have a place to be, a place other than inside my head. A place to sit. A place to dream. A place to be more than just bitter. A place to change. Maybe one day people will read this. One day they will have a look. I hope that they don’t ever find cause to comment at least I was sincere. At least I meant it. I hide it well. I always hid it well. We always do.

Hot coffee or scented pillow? I don’t know yet I just know that I’ve been told too strive for understanding over being understood.

Simon Blake,

No Longer an Astronaut.

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