I’m a film student but I draw and write a little.
There’s a shadow of blood
And wires and hats.
You eat your cauliflower
Mixed with nuts.
Shadows are nuts
Climbing the wall of the houses
Down the road from Marilyn
And her Monroe of plastic babies.
I’m walking passed.
Shops are full of young mothers
And new light gleams
From these new screens
While Batman fucks a child.
Please
Pour yourself another drink.
There is a grab while we fall
And slip towards that
Unknown tomorrow.
And tomorrow and tomorrow.
There is a grab
Where tomorrow looms.
A tear for the last embers
Of that almost everlasting flame.
And another warm drink
In a shaking hand.
I grab you
And hold.
I will slip with you.
I will slip with you
While there is still something called love.
Somehow eyes do not change colour.
Or maybe they do.
Children playing games with each other.
Falling. Squealing. Their gentle hands,
Their fingers touching the grass.
The way the world is to them,
In their sweetness,
Today. Tomorrow,
Rain and tears.
A heavy world growing
Weightier with years.
You’re a ghost standing in the park
With a cigarette. Pale and thin
And tired, watching a child
On a cold, thoughtful day.
Dripping in mud and mad at itself,
The boy lies looking up
At nothing
In particular, dangerously.
In a million rooms.
In a million houses.
Always. He lights a cigarette.
Or she. And again. And again. And again.
Sleep soon. And again.
I looked on the internet today
To answer a question that struck me;
What year did Schopenhauer die?
1860.
It was the 21st of September.
I didn’t have to ask for that detail.
So I looked on the internet this morning
To answer a question I’ve been thinking about;
Is happiness just the relief of pain?
I saw page after page detailing
The connection between physical pain
And sexual pleasure.
I wonder.
I wonder if my sex has all been too vanilla.
There is a question mark here.
Something I can’t see.
An uneasy feeling
In my body.
So I can sit
Or stand. And
I can move and keep moving.
And I can talk while I’m walking
To buy myself a ticket for a
transatlantic flight.
They’ve got a hundred films
And tv shows that I can watch
With headphones on.
They’ll lift me six miles above the ground
And burn a hundred and fifty thousand
Litres of fuel.
I can’t imagine not existing.
Ed Dixon 