Am I searching
Am I searching
If I am, it is reckless
When I am without doubt
Unprepared for the weather
Or any outcome
If it comes to it.
The sky outside is a bright blue
It could be beautiful
And it is
Artistically speaking
But it is freezing.
Appearances are not the be-all
Apparently
They are being affected
By war, famine and insecticide
Much like the rest of us.
Bees, I mean,
Just in case you were wondering.
The walls are covered in doodles
Not here
But in my memory
Of a different place
When it seemed time was on my side.
I smoked Dunhill,
Religiously.
Wrote pages of drivel
Drank cheap wine
Made love in the afternoon
With a lovely woman
From Germany
Called Birte
She played the violin
Her family were minor royalty
Or so she said.
She was a redhead
I have a history with redheads.
We played jazz
In a trio
At a dirty little club
In Soho.
There was never a thought of death
Even though,
Like love,
It was all around.
A guy I knew called Tom
Overdosed on ignorance
He thought freebasing
Would free his soul.
Make of that what you will.
I guess a lot of us thought like that.
I couldn’t commit to suicide
I know what it does to those
Left behind.
Of course, if things
Were so bad
As to pierce the skin
Who was left behind
Wouldn’t be a consideration.
I stopped writing freehand
As it was indecipherable
Too many crossings out
Double backs
Scratchings
As deep as the paper was thick
I wasted too many pages
But it was edgy
I felt engaged in an act of subversion.
Wreathed in smoke
And body odour,
Nobody wore deodorant
In a commune,
God, we must have stunk.
What a way to run a railway
Young and foolish
As opposed to old and frustrated.
Who do you believe
When nothing is as it seems
Everything is manipulated
Even your feelings
Are attributed to outside
Influences,
Sadness is so last year.
Pull back a little
Stop searching
Look at the sky
It is a wonderful shade of blue.
Forget the weather
As a conversational trope,
It is such an English
Thing to do.