One hundred million degrees below freezing,
And Natasha buttoning up her eyes,
Bubbling oil heats the cell of cosy,
As the pull of the future helps cavernous walnuts snap into another rise;
As routine marsupials splash with vigor,
Running like cats away from litter.
Winter pallet shifts a tone lighter and lighter and lighter and เบา
Ascending with a drum roll.
A gift of it to that,
Haunted all the way,
Is it eight am yet?
What do i need, lies?
Tiles cleaned for girls night,
Candy-floss extensions of hate.
Sitting remembering the gemologist,
Am i back on the breast?
A stubborn cliche
A combination of words.
A black cat
A feeling that’s down.
Track between England, fog between pints.
Hindered by disgrace,
Nineteen, cold or Islam, having an attire off.
I salute you your honor,
Vape, fiddle, listen, sit,
Back on the seat before dawn.
Lately, starting around late September i have began to see and listen to the inside of my body. Imagine the kidneys pumping piss, my heart beating, pushing the blood and my brain resembling cottage cheese in a bloody gravy. Like brain masala served in Mumbai but mine alive. My lungs inhaling smoke, black and sticky like peas. Eye balls like elementary science dissection’s. Food moving through my system highlighted by Barry’s beetroot. And then there is breath. In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out.In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out.In and out and around and out.In and out and around and out.Thoughts of organs and their vital role in this.
“How are you today kidneys?”, ” Sorry, not time to talk, were busy!” They are the sweatshop of me, and my poor lungs. Greatful to be alive knowing everything is pulling together and working correctly. Even with the abuse. A good team, Pinky the fleshy machine.
The keys form cords that induce an eyeball elevation.
Flickering frames, birds flying in and out of vision.
A pigeon or a crow replacing the mighty ginger eagle of the sea,
From way back then.
The beach became paving slabs and moss,
The sun disguised by brick not coconut.
The Arabian Sea profound and distant.
Warm Indian faces replaced by impatient Caucasians at the bus stop K.
Lentils to tinsel
Beetroot from jars
Water to Wicked.
Brown as a berry coated in snow.
A daily two-hour commute on public transport heading to something which resembles a large red triangle of sorts. A town full of supermarkets and pound-shops instead of aspirations. Poverty and push chairs, mothers and mobility scooters. Bellies and breasts, clad in orange, clad it knocked off sportswear, male and female. Tattooed necks, wrists and knuckles, shiny earrings, belts and buckles. Give it a sausage roll, thank god for Greggs.
Human life equal i hope as i try to put this race into context, picture a global place, many not knowing quite how lucky they are. Anti black, anti asian, anti anything but the tribe. Orange as tanaka and kappa as lungis. Pies and pasties not rice and pigs heads. Curry becomes common ground. Is there more to life than this as it’s not exotic enough for me. All too harsh, edgy, angry. So extreme.
Yellow wintry light fills the wide spacious streets, whilst penetrating my early morning walnut eyes, behind shattered retro gold. Gold from a glorified time. Round three of the road to the town of tribes.
Last nights dinner seeps from the other non driving commuters. From their regular seats before 7:45 AM. Light stinky gas filling the air, eyes full of motorway. Smart shirts and newspapers, space and insular flesh. I choose nil by mouth.
The first frost of September, twenty-seven horses and hot food in lay-byes. Rainbow sun spinning east to west. Unrecognizable in a hundred fabrics, hot in the early morning light, unpeeled. Perched knees ahoy, rocking and riding with the rhythm of the road. Yes again. Houses cutting shapes in the foreground of transient fire. Thoughts jut to cold winter nose steam exhaling from those perfect velvety lined cavities. Little furry horsed purses.
An epic everyday journey is fusing with the special needs and the desperation of others,myself included. A silky headband and overgrown hands. Far from a pilgrimage but a journey on repeat, a test and an opportunity to give , i just hope they want it, i think. Life through glass and glass. A traveling greenhouse where nothing grows, so i read Shantaram. The flesh becomes a breathing garden, my job being to plant in order to flourish. Teaching is like gardening. Students are like plants. This years crop.