My old school's gone, demolished and rebuilt as a much larger school. Blueprints drawn over memory. I run through solid walls where once I took PE. I raise my hand in strange surroundings. I smoke behind bike sheds that have drifted off with the smoke.
I'm the architect of then.
God is in the detail
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Boris has the Delta Blues
Sajid fills such tiny shoes
Priti - it belies her nature
Britain lacks true legislators
Dom's in perfect, wrecking splendour
Now he's coming off his bender
Gove sits silent at the back
Moving forward, spots the crack.
A half-eaten takeaway in a box on a wall goads a portly jogger. A dog-walker is more walker-dog as his poodle doodles along. The paper van arrives (it's surprisingly sturdy.) The news is tossed onto the kerb by a surly driver. Bad news day or Monday blues? I buy one to find out.
Early, heavy rain. Everywhere's a water feature. Tarmac bubbles and glistens as if it recalls being hot. Kerbs shine as drains gargle with an unspeakable mouthwash. I'm behind glass, watching nature create an exhibition of itself, curate itself, the whole museum to myself.
A For Sale signs lies in a garden. Are they selling their lawn? The corner shop beeps me in. No milk today, just a huge space in the cooler where milk was, and will be again. A man buys beer for breakfast. I bet he's out of milk, too. The corner shop beeps me out. I'm dairy free.
I dreamed I was awake and I was lost in stupor's clutch
Am I now still dreaming - are they real the things I touch
Am I wandering aimlessly the valleys of my mind
Or living in the world we feel that we have not defined
The nature of reality
We pick our own normality.
I wake when the gull squawks. Now we're both annoyed. Where's a buzzard when you need one? Britain's Got Talons. I'm still a silhouette in the remaining dark, though I remain positive as a living negative. I hear that distant freight train, rumbling on - sang someone, I bet.
Morning's performing. Birdsong scats around rhythms of a distant, passing train. A red-faced man fails to silently clink wine bottles into a bin. A car's heavy metal gears grind in accompaniment with my teeth. Birdsong scats around the clinks of the man with the clink problem.
There is a moment-all too brief
Between the time stars fade from view
And the light of the morning tide breaks through
There is a moment-all too brief
Where the world changes shift and we can hear
The click of the turn on this imperfect sphere
And we are reset.
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