Nothing is real

Nothing is real

There are no humans

Everything is a projection

Of my psyche

The window shows a movie

Some actor sits in a car

Picking his nose

A woman walking by

Sneers.

He flicks the bogey

Out of the window

It is a good shot

Hitting a fly

Squashing it against

The woman’s back.

Now she is wearing

A pretty yellow dress

Decorated

With a little splodge of red

And green.

If you were being mean

Which it is easy to be

When nobody exists

She would hit him

With her handbag

Handbag!

Was Ernest aware of his importance?

Not many people are,

Just the solipsists

Meglamanics fit the bill

But not many walk across

This window.

I would like to see Oscar

He sounds wild.

Perhaps if I change channels

Like all the other sad souls

Watching life roll by

Eating a digestive,

Dunking doughnuts.

Does anybody really like a doughnut

Is it just a social thing

Like breathing

They block the arteries apparently

Ride up with wear

Like the sleeve on an old jacket.

Perhaps it is a fiction

A version of the Truman Show

Surely somebody

Knows what the hell is going on

But if there is nobody out there

Pulling the strings

Where are all the humans?

If they do exist

Were any hurt

In the writing of this poem

If indeed that is what it is?

If I will it.

Given I might be the only living human

In this room

Then I guess it is.

And no

Is the answer,

Nobody was hurt

Which makes a change.