Things change.
Standing in the middle of the City,
that unparalleled epitome
of a sick joke, I watch and listen.
I watch the people passing by,
their bodies like mirrors.
I listen to disjointed fragments
of their conversations.
Inspiration. I have none.
Internal: A dull sense of heartache.
A vague regret that I never learnt
how to play guitar. A religious vacuum.
An underground river of loneliness.
A frightening hint of my own potential.
(Where are all the people I never became?)
External: I have surrounded myself.
Everyone is wearing the same style
of clothes as me. They all have
long black hair, eyes masked by shadow,
unhealthy complexions, sensual lips,
emaciated bodies... Does no-one
have an identity of their own, any more?
Landscapes. Inverted.
I choose not to believe this rubbish.
It is amazing how the myths
and superstitions of the sixties
have persevered, survived, endured.
It makes a mockery of the few things
in which I actually do believe.
Landscapes. Internalised.
If ever there is a case for burning books,
then I shall begin judiciously;
starting with my own. I grow dismayed
and make my way back home.
In the end...
As a result of all the propaganda,
or so it appears, I am not sure
just what the hell is really happening.
It is not possible to be aware
of even one percent of what is relevant.
I do not know my reasons
for thinking such hopeless thoughts.
... I descend. Deeper than my philosophy
and darker than my heart. In the end.
