Sunday 5th October



There’s an Autumn crystal sky stretched over Essex,
rich Cyan-to-milk on the horizon. The morning
holds it’s breath waiting for the first car, cyclists
nod, slipping lycra between the fields, human flies,
plastic heads, imaginary olympians, going the distance.
I took the things you said to me days ago & laid them
as foundations, for a bad day. They churn around in the
washing machine, staining all my whites. I stoke & feed
the flame of isolation, wounding ‘little ego’ with a
fevered imagination & an old lust for resentment.
You’re probably out in the sun, enjoying Autumn’s freebee,
or maybe, alone, wondering. This desire to lash out is tired,
thorn in the paw of a wrinkled fable. It’s an old joke on
broken record, all the laughs were dark as echoes.
I boil the kettle, remembering what the tribes of Essex taught,
moving on. No worries, I know a geezer with a van.


5 thoughts on “Sunday 5th October

  1. It’s painful watching/reading. Like a diary of a man slipping into madness. Remembering, some days, that there’s a reason to persevere. There should be no remorse. There are days of positivism. There are smiley days. There are dark days. Too dark, it’s worrying. Watching from afar. Unable to help, other than to hold a virtual hand. To remind a special boy that there are special days. Not just to feed the public expectation. But to be selfish and do epic, simple stuff. Do the stuff you do, for yourself. It’s good stuff.

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