Line Of Sugar

These street signs have buckled beneath their own weight,
as they were always bound to do,
and their interiors are hollow shadow
and shaped metal and filled with plastic bags.

It doesn’t rain, but water falls from the open skies,
and all the rodents move in the times ahead,
and the sun never shines but gaseous flames glare,
and the living are merely the dead.

2015-02-28 15.07.39
I like unpleasant imagery. I like reminding myself that I am an animal. That I am meat and bone and basic impulses, desperately trying to convince myself that I am something more. I like that my whole body is dedicated to a specific and universal kind of hypocrisy, and my mind rejoices in that war.

I was born here,
amongst contemporary cobblestones
tumbling in discordant symphony
through the ruins of themselves,
and in the shadows of our terraced homes.

I will work here,
and waste away beneath ugly skies and ugly lights,
and breathe in the fresh air of summer as my lungs recover
from the oppressive pollution of winter, autumn and spring,
and type until my fingers are the white of bone,
as my ambition is as purple as the night.

I will die here,
and mourned by the few selected for a day,
or two,
and my corpse will be ash as it floats along the Irwell,
that river I have hunted and traced and despised
and my suicide note will be written in every line of sugar,
in every unpublished word, freely given,
to strangers on the internet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s