I sit and try and be a lotus after killing the third fly of the evening with a pocket book of recipes and a thirty centimetre ruler stolen from bathroom **** measuring contests to our knees.
Young professionals tread these boards and I watch, trying to paint them lotus.
I listen and learn like I was told to do then clock watch, mop, cycle home to you; I am still trying to be a lotus even in wet shoes and no socks.
With less than five-hundred pounds to my various names, an office-chair-***-clothes-horse, eight USB charging ports and a future that stretches to Sunday’s last reluctant second, I am sitting, trying to be lotus figuring out the professional path David Attenborough heard in his gentleman’s class: that son of a-
- I walked into an army recruitment vault with dreams of being Gulliver, though was asked to leave out the cat flap cathedral door back into war as they’d got their laugh and didn’t applaud.
Perhaps I should’ve been better at maths where apparently a career can be predicted on a scatter graph, and the pigeons of today were the pigeons of next year and the months that’ll follow the century after that.
I am still trying to figure out the hoo-ha of ******* and ring fingers and collar sizes and the inner circles of hyenas when the winter solstice splits the seasons.
There is no reason for this lotus procrastination when what’s there to live for but a crooked world and one bandage left.