Ground in dirt to skin. And a bag bursting. A solitary pink fluffy towel sits on top like a home beacon. Warning the vessel that carries hope to stay clear of the familiar. Is this all that's left of a previously more affluent life? Or merely a donation to a man that's always failed to function like those that have? I don't know how we can let this be.
Rolled up fags spill from joints that are way past many bed times. It weren't like this back then. When there was something there, albeit warped in plastic wrap to keep it fresh. A sense of nets, like nicotine stained curtains. Maybe I'm wrong? We just tell the stories that suit us don't we!
I can still see the haze. Enter a room and around a table would be human chimneys bonded by blood. By eight I'd have smoked thousands of second hand number 10's. Caught in the outrage at those that chose the inhabitants of number 11's house of austerity for the poor. Anything with a blue rosette should be distrusted, or strung up. Why not? They were out to get us.
The family expected I'd 'come good' just with magic. Despite no head down, up or in. Bits of me were scattered to corners I dare not explore. Even now I'll not go there unless I'm mob minded. Plus when she tried to force me to do that the last of the rabbits scampered from the hat. I never saw them again.
That was just one of many days that I never became of an age older than then. Am I an emotional Peter Pan, unable to mix it with modelled roles?
He was punching way below his weight. Ladies and gentlemen the main event of a lifeless life.
Tear salted urban world snacks attend the foreground. Street dwellers at the back. "Can you spare some compassion. Can you see how fucked up we are. Can you accept that no one would choose to be cold, hungry and unsafe?"
Can I cope with being part of a society, economy, culture and community that lacks heart? Not really.
Community? It sits just out of reach, as do I. Connection is everything. How does one nurture this elusive medicine?