Solipsistic

Solipsistic

He wheeled a shopping trolley

It skittered constantly, crabwise,

An ongoing battle

To move in a straight line

Only three wheels revolving

Full to the brim, overflowing

All kinds of paraphernalia, bric-a-brac

Broken radios, a plastic bag full of tin cans

A cat basket, a cuddly toy

There were

Streamers of tin foil to confuse the 5G gamma radiation

“How do you know?” he yelled

In the general direction of anyone who passed by

“What is the point of anything?

When philosophically speaking we are nothing

But an extension of our own ideas

Unsure of anything even our own existence.’

He stopped to pick up a coke can

An almost whole, Marlboro light

Which he lit from an expensive-looking Dunhill

He had found beneath a bench in Victoria Park

Tom could sleep there without being seen

A layer of foil screening out the gamma rays

‘Who came up with the word solipsism?

It wasn't me

Where did I find it

Does it even exist and how would I know

When I can’t even be sure of my own boundaries

Is there anybody listening

How can there be

There is nobody in here but me

Does that make me an egotist

Or would I have to believe in myself

When I can’t believe in anything”

He raked around in his trouser pockets

And came upon a few coins

Just enough for a bag of chips

Nobody stood in his way

How could they, nobody was really there

“A bag of chips of you please, my good man

With some scraps and as much salt “N” vinegar as

You can shake a stick at

After all, cholesterol is an illusion

Maybe I shouldn't even be eating

Perhaps I’m not going to

I will feed into the idea of a Phoenix

I will rise again

Like the resurrection

I will be the redeemer

But first, let me redeem my chips

What difference would it make

If I just didn’t pay?”

He found himself out on the street

Still feeling hungry

One day he would keep quiet long enough

To be served.

The trolley clattered along Hackney Road

Cutting through the confusion

Of his inner world

Breaking up his thoughts

Reminding him of the meaning of his existence

Which he had worked out, only yesterday

And had written down

On the flap of a cardboard box

Which he had then filled with cans

And swapped for a quid

“Shoot,” he muttered, screwing up his face

“I have forgotten who I am again

Unless that is the point of this exercise

Looking for what is hidden,

One day I will find it, put it all together

And then everything will make

Perfect sense,

With a clear connection

Between one thing and another

Unless of course, there is none

Not even the probability of random chance

Because the only reality

Is the one I make for myself.

And how would I know?

Perhaps my consciousness

Is but a construct

With no permanent substance

I can lay claim to as my own…

Oh, shoot me with the nonbinary essence

Of a holographic anomaly

…How depressing is that?”