Thursday, 16 February 2017

Waiting For The 7:52

I was waiting for the 7:52, I was on the platform on the opposite side from you. I could see your chest heaving heavily in anticipation, of a day that would bring you nothing but deflation. Each intake of breath a fight just to stay alive, and not step forward and let the train turn you out from the inside.

We stand united for a moment, just us alone, our eyes catch each other's and then drain away, back to our phones. The trains whistle in, whistle out, and woosh by, I never got the obituary, but I'm certain I have already died.

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Leg Jelly Wobblings and Other Jolly Goblins

There are certain moments, stuck in my mind, that are totally potently frozen in time. No matter how desperately I wish to rewind, they'll always be there, making me smile. Like that time that we met at the park by the lake, where you first held my hand and you said you'd separate, all the weight of my thoughts and my heart from the ache. I went along without misgivings, long before spurned, never having had my hopes crushed or my feelings unreturned. I thought that day was freedom, I thought that we were in love, and then I ended up squeezing your neck to death, wearing a pair of latex gloves.

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Monday, 13 February 2017

Dreaming Of A Quiet Isthmus

I had the nightmare again. The one where I'm driving to work. The one where I arrive and spend nine hours sitting at a desk. The one where the boss walks in and tells me that he's going to be putting me to the test. That so far this month KPI's are down and so he's 'sorry', but he needs to be a pest. Suddenly I'm sitting, hunched over wearing an ugly work appropriate vest, my co-worker slaps me and calls me a faggot "in jest", whilst my lunch is finding someone else's insides in which to digest, and everyone is laughing behind my back at every single idea that I suggest. At the end of each day for some reason I'm feeling lucky to be this oppressed, because the alternative in this nightmare world is to be unemployed, and that would certainly make one feel depressed.

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Sunday, 12 February 2017

She Walks Around and Around and Around the Block, How Does She Keep Getting Fatter When She Never Seems to Stop?

Even the bad times gave me that steeped pining pang of nostalgia now. Even the bad times, for all their foul memories, when imbued with the overwhelmingly desperate distance of time, had me longing for something I perceived as lost. Even awkward, stomach wrenching regrets, those that wind a corkscrew through my insides to think of even now, are never the less bobbing away in a sea of timeless youth and of a naivety long lost. Things seemed so much simpler then. Of course, they probably weren't. That's how memories age, fade, and change. The age old spread from innocence to the grave, and everything inside my head that's doomed to be decayed.