it takes only a few things,
a windowsill,
  cigarettes,
        a glass of bourbon -
which, for some reason
always tastes like the air in
a brothel...
a decent nibble of music...
the cold air at the end
of November...
    and an impeding storm
from the north sea...
where the clouds glide
so so quickly in the sky...
and they're thin enough
that you can still peer at the moon...
once upon a time i used
to look forward to
the Friday's and the Saturday's
of a weekend...
   but i have three dinners
pre-cooked...
a decent butter chicken curry,
with the chicken marinated in
Turkish yogurt and
tandoori masala...
   with that rich, almost fluorescent
red beaming from the pan...
and a creamy mushroom
and mustard sauce...
   and Saturday's take-away
leftovers of a kebab...
i'm sorted for the week,
   and it's Sunday, and on Sunday...
there's a sense of clarity before
Sisyphus takes over
the spirit of Monday...
  and it's back: eat, sleep, ****,
repeat...
       every single i find myself
imitating an escape artist from
the orbit of earth...
         every single time...
i'm bound to jumping into
Heraclitus' river...
        and steer a course,
a linear unpredictable course...
pushing myself to never
allow history to succumb
to the schematic of the earth's
orbit...
         but yes...
when the wind is high above
in the sky,
and is not rustling the trees,
giving them a hairbrush feel
to them...
          up in the sky,
  and the clouds are charging ahead,
or rather... their momentum
looks like ice-skating...
trees...
             affected by the elements...
and then the cold inanimate
stacked bricks of houses...
       only death can move dead
objects...
         apparently...
   god is not as omnipotent as
people could have aimed for...
only death can move inanimate
objects;
but at what point is an object
inanimate?
      given that... the earth in
a microcosm of the rock: dead...
and yet...
  possesses an orbit mobility...
    like an insect...
        but not quiet...
given the tectonic plates...
   an exoskeleton...
     i'm starting to craft
   a inanimate-metaphor of
an object...
         given i've already moved
about a tonne of rocks...
in terms of them becoming
mobile subjects.