A dead end situation.
Stuck. Like brick to cement.
You'll do anything
for a hint of something.
It's been coming for ages;
building,
tumbling towards you
like a train on a track,
the damsel in distress,
tied down, downwards bound,
stalking around.
But you can't see,
it changes invisibly,
always going too fast,
momentum gathering;
letters,
beach shells,
names that would only ever have meaning
to you or her.
It was never going to last
always going too fast.
Past having a spark,
endlessly trying to relight.
Exhaust
all energy left,
find something to keep it fuelled,
to get you through the night:
caffeine,
narcotics,
late night television,
social networking sites,
talking to the ones you don't have the guts to in real life.
Real people. Reality TV.
What does it mean?
A blurred vision in which to entertain your life.
Surround yourself with
false dreams,
false hope,
fake plastic love
moulded into the form
that you want to see,
you want it to be
want it all to stop.
Go.
Any direction.
Forwards,
backwards,
mind spinning in circles,
turn it off.
Stop.
It's all a dream.
Awake,
to a new day, new life,
new home,
new car,
new wife.
Choose a diamond or pearl to cement these new found pleasures,
choose it all, self-absorbed in your own little world:
petty things,
the colour of paint on your bathroom wall.
Cream.
Chestnut.
Teal.
Another abstract way to cover up what is the simple truth.
Conspiracy everywhere;
newspaper, post office,
your local chippy, chips wrapped in ‘The Independent’
not ‘The Sun’.
Gossip,
front page
back page,
a wave of infatuation with the lives of people no better than yourself,
your image,
in the looking glass
see straight through.
This house,
this car,
this life,
it isn't you.
The radio plays through that knock off surround sound system you bought in a drunken haze,
and the cranking of your Ford Fiesta's deteriorating exhaust reminds you of her
as it pulls up on your drive.
It’s never going to happen now,
Still going to love her anyhow.
They're flying round your stomach again -
another one of those black, rainy days.
This isn't what you want,
not just another phase.
You read through 'Wilde',
'Wordsworth',
'William. Shakespeare';
Stolen tales
of life, love, loss,
lust,
loathing another man,
because he holds the pearl of your heart so dear.
They keep flying,
drumming, beating louder,
louder,
three words could change it all,
yet somehow it's your greatest fear.
Get-away.
A nice holiday to ease your mind;
Florida, Turkey,
Isle of Wight.
Another mask
to an already
covered over life.
Escape to your dreams,
anything that will get you there:
class a,
class b,
class c,
the class of '99,
the cream of the crop, you were just kids
and everyone’s heart
was just diddly dandy fine.
Move on, move out.
Wave
goodbye.
Find someone else,
grow old
in a nice little bungalow,
just the two of you,
lie in each others arms,
softly, quietly
fall to sleep.
