donderdag 27 september 2012

Parklife.


She only ever w
alks to count count her steps.
Eighteen strides and she stops to abide,
by the law that she herself has set.
That eighteen steps is one complete set,
And before the next nine right and nine left.
She looks up up at the blue,
And whispers to all of the above.



Don't let me drown, don't breathe alone,
No kicks no pangs no broken bones.
Never let me sink,
Always feel at home,
No sticks no shanks and no stones.
Never leave it too late,
Always enjoy the taste,
Of the great grey world of hearts.
As all dogs everywhere bark,
It's worth knowing;
Like all good fruit, the balance of life is in
the ripe, and ruined.




Taking the last train is like living in limbo. No information from the dark, barren lands. A wave of emptiness might overwhelm you, creep up to the train ever so slow as you roll out from the lit areas of the countryside. The wave approaches, and stops, at the high watermark of the dimly lit railroad tracks. There's no reference point to cling on to, no logic or reason to deduct what kind of landscape you're crossing. The iconic sound of the train fades, distorts and becomes a whisper. The rendez-vous with reality seems postponed indefinitely, and paranoia creeps over you. Staring outside is pointless, because it only confronts you with a fluorescent version of yourself in a mirror of black, like fireworks over a dark ocean. Your mind can't figure out whether it's staring in the distance or looking at something close. It wouldn't matter anyway. Slowly, some lights gloom over the newly recognized horizon. You see it as a beacon of hope, something familiar and friendly. But as the wave breaks and rolls back, and roofs, lights and fences become visible, you realise it: that dark moment in the train might be the only time you've been free from everything, and everyone. Your reflection is gone, and other faces appear.


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