The Do-Gooder’s Dilemma

Face the morning:
I’m on a come down.
She says, ‘Feel my Pain’.
But I haven’t got the patience.
And, for that, I know, I’m going to be Damned,
Eternally.
Certainly.

Face the darkness:
I’m a snarling snag of traps.
She says, ‘I can’t sleep’.
Then sleeps with her head in my lap.
And for that, I know, I’m going to be Saved,
Eternally.
Surely?

We’ll see.

Sound bites

It’s not
Really me
That man,
Dapper
In a blue suit
Spitting soundbites.
Look, can’t you see? He’s dead behind the eyes,
Lost to the world; strands of redundant and defunct genotypes.
Away with the birds.

If he was lost at the train station I wouldn’t even bother to claim him.

I’m not blaming him but he’s lucky if he gets through a day without humiliation or exposure. Guilt and shame keep him driven. He makes the most of what he’s been given and hopes for a sense of closure. Doffing his cap, scrying his diary for reasons to get up.

He can do that world. Mostly. Though he may have reached the glass ceiling of his ambition. Totally. There’s too much competition and friction; every meeting is like a choir of demons singing their derision. I say Enough, shrug, and shake it off like dandruff. Just turn up, do what you’re good at. Forget all that Dog Eat Dog, enjoy more cat lick cat.

Tempted and backslidin’ #2

It could be said that I’ve not been at my most creative. My head has been full of woes, hows, and what-ifs. It’s no way to live. The practicalities don’t feature in my list of priorities, so, when I have to pay attention, I usually have to begin with apologies, negotiations and nuanced begging. That’s the bit I’ve been dreading.

I am a minion with a vision. A perspective. Subjective Anarcho-Syndicalism, with lashings of cynicism and spoonfuls of pessimism. Skepticism must not be rejected.  Certainty includes a slab of granite on which my name will need engraving, so, perhaps, I must consider that there might be a life out there worth having. Maybe a leap of faith worth braving? Unlikely, but strangely entertaining.

I can play mind games about meaning all night. Is it in Picasso, or the amygdala? DNA or Caligula? Am I a sparky sack of chemicals fizzing?, a God?, a particle collision?  None of it, and All of it, is right.

Situations

I try to tip toe round situations
With my nervous teeth in a minefield;
Surprises come in clusters,
It’s staying whole that matters.
The world is chockfull of people with no inhibitions –
Nutters, cutters, tutters getting in under my shield.

I shuttle between situations
Like a water boatman beetle in a dingy dingy,
Between islands of serrated granite,
White with gannet guano;
Foreboding fingers and fists
Signal sigils frantically
From the Atlantic.
I scour the treacherous rock for an occasional cove of kindness,
Or a cave of blindness,
To escape the crashing waves of crazy.

But, on some days, I spin myself a situation
And lure people in
With my siren suave sophisticated poise.
It doesn’t work on everyone.
Of course.

Some kind of lighthouse saves some,
Diffusing the situation pre-detonation;
But you’d think it would work on someone!

Psych sketch #7

It’s midnight and still no moment of glory. It’s not insomnia, it’s fighting the slow drift of entropy. That’s the part of me I hate: each futile gesture that I make seems to be just the clawing fingers of fate; a poem, a half-rhyme, some concept or punch line, some conceit, vision or decision – something that seemed like mine against the pull of time.

My world-renowned ability to tip-toe (almost in slo-mo) is in doubt. All my relationships are as ambivalent as seesaws. I’ve lost my poise, I’ve lost the appearance of poise; I’ve just about forgotten what poise even looks like. Am I labouring the point? It’s the anxiety to say something clever, to avoid all the non-laughing matters.