Wednesday, 22 February 2017

Which is the part,
Shelf it I guess,
I'll remember it later,
walk at a good pace.

arms in coat pockets,
holding in the sides,
and every now and then,
make sure
the headphone cable is tucked away.
adjust hat.

Look at giant attractive woman made of vinyl sticker,
don't stare, people in cars see you staring,
People in cars, passing on foot, riding past eyes forward on bicycles wearing those weird wrap around glasses... all of those fucks. You are the single focal point of their vision and thought for the entirety of your time in their vicinity. In fact, once you have minced off into the middle distance, they disappear, like conjured birds that are no longer entertaining. puff.

head hurts,
feeling guilt,
feeling lonely,
solipsist anxiety.
call someone,
show you that you are real.
but what about the people that you used to call?
to affirm your benevolence and relevance. to make you feel good and bad and warm and sick.
the ones that you aren't really supposed to call anymore? those fucks. If they have been spirited away, into the great tide of irrelevant infinity, the great beating mass of love and plastic bag anxiety and prioritising holidays and shitting and clapping in false appreciation and breathing too loud and social media account deletion and reactivation and emails to strangers back and forth and back and forth.. If they are there, in that no place, not nearly near, well what then? where does that leave you? what if the next number you dial, as you trickle down through your super premium contacts of best friends and parents and people who also really get that thing that you get so fucking much... what if they disappear in to the many beating hearts of society. what if for all of your pulling them to turn by the shoulder you are only greeted by more backs. I mean, you might as well peel the giant woman from the tanning salon and take it home.

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