Standing on Buchannan trying to write a line
Listening to my favourite person 'shine'
Friday night friends doing all sorts of lines
That irresponsible drug scene just isn't mines
Never know, one day it won't be 'fine'
Especially when your putting your life up for grabs
It's slowly approaching quarter to nine
Someone pass me the ****** wine
The thought of alcohol is surely a sign
That I'm alive, the future will be absolutely fine
Looking back, I wish I'd done that ****** line!

In a dream I was walking, all alone.
A flower; I saw-

                             off in the distance..

it was all alone, like me.

I do not get paid to be an extra
in someone's story. The director
does not offer me notes or cues
on when to interact with the other characters.
I am only there, standing alone
eyes darting around for a subject to speak with.
Even the antagonist drops their sight. The other extras
barely glances at me. Their role is just the same as mine,
but they're hoping they'll outshine me. They brush shoulders,
fingers, as they bump against the crowd.
I remain invisible, lingering in the background,
waiting for my scene to arrive. Ready for a line
in the script. Anxious to be a first choice for once.
No matter how loud I scream that I have yet to tell my story, they will not notice me.
And I know the other dying extras are told the same thing-
write your own script. Make your own production.
Pitch ideas until one sparks, and that becomes your entity.
But it is hard to see that the girl in red
is pushed all the way in the back of the white sea unwillingly.

In late year retrospect,

half night suggests,
beyond Darlington junction,
an amber lining at street's end.



©2013 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net

Bayou,
a vague haven
where the sky trembles
when howls the shadow man.




©2014 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net