I don’t write for therapeutic reasons, or as a means of catharsis.
My dad had a Toyota Catharsis and it was a terrible ride, so I write for the simple reason that writing is easy, writing is a bumpless road paved with good inflections… once you don’t concern yourself with quality… or critique… or self-awareness… manage that, and writing is easy, honestly, so simple that even I can do it. Plays are hard though, as in technically, as in remembering who said what and to whom, that sort of thing, and poems, poems are hard, not just the rhyming, but the non-rhyming ones as well, and novels, they are sooooooo long and you have to be careful you don’t forget what they are about, and short stories are really hard, harder than novels because you have to say as much but not write as much… yeah, writing is really easy, really really easy.
She loved me best in those moments that she forgot herself, and came to me in the spaces I filled with cunning, in the footprints of my stealth. She loved me most of all in daydreams, where the grass was soft beneath her feet. and as she pulls the petals beneath the sun, she dies a little with every fading beat. She loves me. She loves me not. And all the more in the dust beneath her feet, for petals only fall in need, and I am all the need she's got.
See those slimy lizards in their shiny suits. those cold blooded wizards who magically make us disappear as they stomp on our dignity, with their tiny lizard boots..... as the minister for killing the old said they were fine it was just a cold put them back into their safe and private care homes with the jigsaw puzzles and garden gnomes and when they die we will not count because Pretty Patel can't add up that large an amount. and the lizards rejoiced and were warm of heart as they grew closer and we grew apart. and the minister for killing kids at school says send them back, let's end Home rule because parents are just getting us in debt as they learn how to do things on the internet, the computer shows them how to be thankful, how to get fitter, but NOOOOO, the minister for killing our kids says send them back, even though Corvid is lurking like a coughing Gary Glitter and the minister for killing our kids says NONSENSE and BALDERDASH, they are safe he says , as he twirls his serial killer moustache, and the lizards in their nest say, well done,old chap, well done come over here minister, and have a bask in the sun. only 40 000 have died and so you lose some to win some because those at high risk are those on low income and the minister for stealing your money said that the wind in the sales will blow cheap prices away and hide our thumb on the scales..... and when we the people emerge from the dark to meet on a golf course or do urgent exercise in the park... just remember that while we were all in isolation, the lizards weren't bothered about second waves, not after the success of the first wave of their lizard invasion.
THE SPECTRUM OF DEATH
She took me through the cemetery to walk amongst the graves and while she counted all the years they'd had I counted all the Daves. . She held my hand as we walked along, as she counted ourselves lucky, that we had come to visit with the dead but all I was counting was all the Daves because that's what its like to live inside my head, . She found a bench for us to sit, talked about our future, how our love will always last, and I smiled at her and didn't say, that on the way here thirty seven red cars had driven past. . She told me I would never be alone that I could count on her, and I told her you can't count on promises but I could recite Pi if she'd prefer.. , We sit in silence with our thoughts, and I felt her heart beating next to mine, she let me count the birds that perched, because she knew that I'd be fine. . A man stopped at our bench and sat , he smiled and his breath was on the wind,, a wind that chilled us to the bone, he put a scarf around my neck and said... "come on son, the cemetery is no place to be alone".