Some more third-rate thoughts, while I consider the need to create two poems. Two poems that just won’t be dissuaded to leave my consciousness.
Don’t be surprised if some variant of the below, invariably wriggles its hackneyed way into another piece, of longer writing one day. Yes, my thoughts are ‘recycled’ i.e. fraudulent, if you will.
This didn’t happen. Really.
THOUGHTS FROM THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR
Sometimes, on nights of utter restlessness, I walk barefooted up the concrete steps, sometimes stretching three at a time. Past the Pollock-esque splatterings of banal beige vomit, scatterings of kebab leaflets resigned to their brutalist fate and empty cans of supermarket own brand cider and Red Stripe beer.
And then, in a breathless panic I reach the thirteen floor, conscious of how loud I slammed the door (on the first) on my way out. Hexagonal gliding granules in the distant darkness correspond to a lorry’s headlights, perhaps arriving from the West on Hammersmith flyover, another ASDA lorry of over-production across the organic agglomeration of the city, the mythologised, hyper-real pseudo-american highways that stretch into infinitude like a Möbius strip of cracked concrete from John O Groats to Jakarta, Karachi to Canterbury. The fractiousness of frontiers. History, culture and love colliding.
Shall I go back to watching Jeremy Kyle after a digression into Wittgenstein? Fuck, I’m tired. Am I more tired than I was?
Just dizziness and relativism.
Nihilism and chemical pleasures.
Atoms and emptiness.
And then, quickly after, the desire for the enveloping womb-like warmth of a (Freud is a social worker on the eighth floor) duvet creeps on quickly, after glimpsing fractals of light, perhaps, after the eighth minute. Irrespective of evolutionary ingrained instinct to climb to an advantageous apex (an unprofound mode of glimpsing something profound?) I’m too tired to expand.
Blackened soles clear 3 steps at a time, down the stairs. A nobody, nude, running from the night.