westid

my clothes were made by far away slaves, my ancestors emptied bins and still had dirt beneath their fingernails in their early graves. my lungs are blackened with heroin and tobacco, no matter how much i turned myself around six years ago. my heart is blackened with more of the same, but it hurts because i’ll never see them again. my love is based on those of my blood, mutually poisoned by every pharmaceutical and dissociative anaesthetic that it could. my vocabulary is broken, thoughts obscene. a credit to my particular part of the machine. hair is growing out of control, like a totalitarian dictator stashed underground in his childhood home town in a trapdoor’d oubliette hole. but i let it that way not to play that role, paul trent – the last artist, nature loving, accomplished creator that ever lived, used to have hair all the way down to the floor – when he died so did a part of me, and cos i lost my security clearance, so i don’t have to be a fuzzy head or wear a helmet to work any more. between brightest red, morose scarlet. my oxygenated blood is coloured like the red duster. you can grab old of my head, look into me. [grandad] in my eyes. my soul is on a solitary boat going over the channel, harmonica playing the sentinel. silent lightningbolts, no sound from what strikes, just flashes above me in the skies. higher forces in the heavens above, they do their usual dance, without a sound in them like the skies over the vine fields over the south of france. [the owd car] flies over the continent, from some of the most duty-free mountainous heights currencies of mixed money could ever be spent. whatever the self-admitted church hypocrites were giving up for lent, over the road and up the steps to 5A is where they went. the captain was down the bottom sat with the heads of town, in the tack from where they were sent, they knocked on after school; “is he in?” weren’t you just sat with him? how many? here you are. carry him back at teatime from where you are. i went down there on the final voyage of that car. one day a very long time ago, through the winow where he kept things, he showed me my first shooting star. no matter how things might change about where we are, the sky at night? never. but those little dots of light, however i may love them – and just like that old man who taught me of this place, and its beautiful machine; he’s forever removed, and distant far, since he went; life’s always treated me so mean

it’s hard not being part of the machine.