A Gloved Hand Warmed November

 

leaning over he leant ever lower
craning a gloved hand over the candle flame ember
a discarded cigarette flicked away still lit
a street heater
a gloved hand warmed november..

the gloved hand over a cigarette
a postmodern stained-glass frieze
an ironic holiday postcard of a banksy mural print
for the lucky ones who lead another life
unlikely he would he get it..

stood on the other side my chocolate was making a phone call..
and he gazed down at the cigarette for quite a while
he then collected it up
then shuffled around his belongings
a trolley next to a case
many bags and empty coffee cups full
stacked neatly all in rows and all in line
in front of him on the kerb
and to his left-hand side on the pavement behind
thoughtfully he left plenty of room for passers-by..

he placed the cigarette in one of his cups
and gazed at it
his back by degrees lowering down
he walked back a little
surveying
considering
analysing
the yoga pose remained windswept-stoic..

after a few seconds he raised up
at the speed of the second hand of a watch
going back in time
he fished out the cigarette
perhaps it was not quite extinguished
and might scorch or damage the other items inside
or perhaps the placement seemed not quite right..

and he walked slowly slowly around and around
and a street sweeper semi-circled around him understanding
recycling manifests in many ways
the discarded meaning
gently elevated within its barren priceless cost..

he placed the smoke in another coffee cup
this cup on the other side
he then stared away from here somewhere
he seemed glad to acknowledge a shrugged reception..

he then turned to gaze down at this goblet
he rose a little and walked around his belongings once more
considering and reflecting and musing..

..yeah he is seems to always be there
well at least during office hours
the folks in the coffee shop know him
he often goes in to use the toilet etcetera
he collects things
they know he has some kind of mental health issue
they are okay with him
nice to see..

only a few minutes earlier
and entirely unconnected
we had been talking about a tate modern exhibition
and as it turned out
the only one my coffee-break colleague needed to attend
such coincidences have great timing..

and art
where context is everything
only in the art gallery would this have value and meaning
only in the art gallery the installation artist may say
yeah it means whatever you want it to mean
i am glad it has sold
but that is not entirely the reason why i did it
so please do not ask me what it all means
why i threw it all together as i did
you have to bring yourself to it
use your critical thinking..

lucky for mister tortured artist this man on the pavement
will never be granted access-all-areas
perhaps some intrepid impresario
should offer him a contract
but not everyone can do this as art
again it is the context that provides value and meaning
otherwise it is just kitsch rubbish
that despoils the landscape with bric-a-brac clutter
there is a place for such things..

then leaning to one side he looked up at the slate sky
as a quality street sweet wrapper metamorphosed
he arced his woolly hat gently a net
golden fluttering foil trapezed transfigured
he gazed down contemplating his catch
then he tipped his hat upside-down to release
the golden amber light lifted down landed
and he leant a little lower and a little lower to..
my break was over so i had to go back inside..

Only Two More Years To Flatten The Curve On This Round Earth

the crisp blue lake of sky
vast and tranquil
unblemished
i gaze up at this vast blue lake of sky
kissed with the morning sun rays
the air sparkles heady powdered dew
tasteful elements of crystalline blue
a wafer of angel feathers the offering..

a wafer of angel feathers feathering
a taste-mountain of the sky blue
a dash of lemon sun
a sliver of ice from the still visible crescent moon
a free cocktail of polka dot ozone zephyr
the gentlest brush on the lips
a drop of nectar of forever
a froth of the most wispy cloud hit..

the majesty of the eternal is still a thing
embraced in the fleeting gift
the fleeting gift unwrapped is the memory distilled
stirred whirling within its dynamo of transmutation..

The Driver

 

rolling as smooth as tanks on plastic turf
governments are super efficient when they wish to be
that nietzschean sense of purpose
is all they need..

the jubilating crowds enticed join in
yearning to be told they are in something big together
buddy the boot on face to flatten the curve
the current fascism always looks so different
than the ones read in history books
that is always the excuse
and a post-modern genocide would feel like nothing..

a bleeding man in blue jeans was lying on the ground
the blood was pouring down his legs
and criss-crossing his white shirt
in a pile unmoving almost folded in on himself 
in a foetal position he lay 
one sleeve embracing the shiny refuse..

a rubbish collection van stopped
the driver jumped out
he threw the black bags in the back
then he knelt down and
picked up the discarded flag
before throwing it back on the pavement again..