somewhat poetic

kind older
homeless man with a
round weathered face
and he smiled and sat and played the flute
outside nearby my place of work

his flute skills what sub-par/
notes arbitrary, seemingly
played clumsily
awkwardly

but over the time that i would see him
playing, (sometimes in the rain)
i liked to think that he was improving
slowly

(and as much as i liked him
(and i did indeed like him)
never once did i pay him)

and one day he came in, complaining
of some rough and unsavoury
homeless most probably
types, unpleasant
most probably

who were threatening to come
and hurt him and move him on
and take his place. outside, nearby my
place of work

i see him around from time to time
elsewhere, fluteless

and a new man sits in the old spot
occasionally playing that old flute
funnily enough, very well

woke up throw down softly

i dream loads now but i still lie in
but for different reasons and kind of the same reason

i need to make breakfast now
and then go on a big walk with a friend

what will we talk about
i don’t want to be boring, i
want to be an asset to the big walk
i want to pull my weight this walk, i want to
pull out the big guns

maybe i can say things like “what
do you want to talk about next”

maybe i can keep telling them how hungry i am
except i won’t be that hungry because i need
to make breakfast now

an h(/fr)omage to how i used to sound

sounds like a
crises plural/ lice
surround me/ hounds like
dinner time gather round
the waterin hole on the dole
on the day and
on the day that morning she
did her business blending as she do

shallow fryin she misses the way
she used to see all kinds of food get
wrought and grated
moulded and broiled and
covered in sweaty pastries n
wrapped in thinly cut meats
nondescript slabs of meats
peppered and slapped and ground grimacing

the way she used to see him ooze it/the way
he embodied soft cheese conceptually
trudged around proudly he felt
adequate thanks to her
knowing gaze

when wanting to want becomes wanting

1277px-Édouard_Manet_-_The_Toilers_of_the_Sea_-_Google_Art_Project

i am but a cabin boy on choppy waters, land ho(?)
pic somewhat related



writing on an empty stomach
losing juice losing weight but
persisting with what i perceive as lost

long for the quick grat’
on screen endeavours
the quick fixes, the
slow burners the
self consuming fallacies
that shits BAD for me

long to feel proud/to
read back like i did good n
walk proud the next day like
i is good

confidence confidence confidence momentum
these words is whatever/i’ve skipped
to the back of the queue, got hoops
to re jump n re-re jump through
n press ups n clap press ups
star jumps mentally, teach me what a jumping jack is
n i’ll fucking turn it into a take down or a submission move
i’m adaptable, i’m ice cold
i’m a killer/i got you in a jumping jack
half master nelson lock-hold AKA the
death lock-hold
make you tap out like ding-ding-ding/watch you
walk home in shame/have you followed n
flogged n brought to me alive n
defiled/watch me hop back into the queue like i’m
not back/possibly
never gonna be back possibly
never gonna feel ready or
feel like these are the days
or like i’m on form these days
but at least maybe possibly
there’s a chance that i could ever so slightly
be improving mentally
edging closer to something loosely resembling
stability