Didn't they say, for lack of better terminology, that I, a dreamless whistletop, was meant to fade into the darkest depths of ambiguity?

The day would have been a resounding success were there
a jolt of lightning striking up my bottom to wake my bootstraps from
numbness and slumber; We would all concur, dare say.
Alas, insufficiency in the gamble ruin a rather palatable occasion;
Just because I'm unassertive doesn't mean I'm a twat.
Or am I?
You erred, ser, I told myself, a big buffoon; So I sit by a bookstore cafeteria
all by the lonesome, how sad, for this day it would have had altered
a new tomorrow for myself and for others around me. Sod the naysays
and the bygones and the whatnots.
How pretentious can I be when I for a moment called myself
a carnivore through and through and end up shoplifting a vegetarian
sushi made from the gentle hands of those more capable?
Do I kick myself in the groin with each reminder or do I stand up
for myself and realise that all really is mine for the taking?
England is mine and it owes me a living!
Wasn't it you who swore I was not free?
Wasn't it you who said I needed to break free from the confines
of delusion and make-believe?
And yet you chastise me, make a mockery of my agony, my heavy
burden to carry, and discard it like a whore used and abused.
They smiled at me, waved a hullo, and considered me one
of them, as an equal, and as a friend. It's just, I felt, about time.
To have it all, it seemed, to me, an ancient sensation.A muscle
memory released from years-long immobility; it felt good,
This is the deluge; an endless undulation, a force unleashed.
Times have changed. We undulate along with it, and with me in
the background. There's nothing more fruitful in life than
the mysterious sizzle of strangers/
Oh how amazing it was, when, at the height of my joy, I had
the longest conversation I had with someone else, vis-a-vis;
Mundane, every single day stuff, but stuff nevertheless.
I live, for now, for the joy of the next, spontaneous chat.
Be it old or young fat or thin, beautiful or ugly, rich or poor.
This will keep me relevant, I hope, otherwise I would end
up in a ditch somewhere, bruised and unkempt, up to
within an inch of my life, for whatever my life is worth.
If, in case, due to some unforeseen circumstances, for some reason,
someone else mourns my demise, then I would offer my
first words with God to your favour. For you are a person worth
the cherish. That is all I have ever wanted and will ever need.
Nothing else can deny me this solitary want. 
For the Rebeccas and the Lieves of the world, with souls none
as good and brimming with humanity.  Even though the sky is
grey and pekish at the present. An odd circumstance, no doubt,
but not from the first. Those are left fended on its own..
So what is next, you ask, I wonder. I don't even know if I believe.
For me it could all be a fantasy peddling for some pence,
right around that corner over there. Come at me.
I will take it all on. It's in the imprint, you reckon, I assume.
Somewhere along the line, it was absolved of all the things I shouldn't
be worrying about, and yet here I am, eh..
But truth denies those bound for glory its merit,
It is what gives me the privilege of authenticity.
It's in the imprint, now I'm perfectly sure.
In your case, I'm not, and it would have been nice had I
been made redundant from the previous role. A role which
was filled by those whose chorus fell to rhyme. Would it be a lie to
tell then that I have been allured by its charm?
Because I have and there is no reason whatsoever to deny it.
It would be fitting that I accept this monumental task and succeed.
Should I succeed I deserve the utmost respect from my peer, I should.
Should I fail, however, the consequences prove dire.
But enough talk of negativity, I was meant to celebrate the day,
not cause a ruinous uproar over the backside.
So I go back to the topic at hand, where was I.
Ah, Greenwich, yes. Tell me all about its lush Sundays.
A sight to behold. A Sunday could not be as lively anywhere else as
the day is in Greenwich. No street could be as livelier, as boisteous,
tittilating, and as civilised than this. It is the gentlest mania.
Even a barbecue on the summer beach could not compare, nor a
touch of sweet femininity, nor a mare in heat.
Its frailty, its everlasting tenderness, coy, sound.
Isn't it unfortunate that I pollute it with my presence?
I wish to be one with it, yet I obviously cannot.
I just cannot. There really is no point in struggling.
But to struggle is human, to err is feral.
Abandon, break away, and let cry the song of our collective
anguish. We shall bide our time. 
Begin, I shall, counting, if only for the same,
from ten to three.
The two and one can wait, however long it takes.

Popular posts from this blog

And then...

Question the necessity of sobriety

Strange Fruit