Peachy pictures

Told to sort through my things. You were funny, born nearer to the Sex Pistols with their purple Mohican hairdos, their zips and spits and fuck you, than to when robots first cloned robots faster than me or you. Back then life was a shapeless sack; no control over the cast, set, or the walk on parts.

                The beat of progress, poltergeists of the past whistle past my head, messing up the present with their unreasonable childish cheerfulness. All memory uploaded and no remembering. Fear not allowed to enter into the frame. Smile and eat the greens of our pleasant land. Grown-up food you said. No brooding. You put me on the pill – just in case.

                I heard so many stories of what a handful I was. Falling and failing had not yet been invented, even if they had, they were on a different scale in the damp verges and hedges of time, unpixilated. No wasp eggs laid inside, only fluttering butterfly views.

                Pick the petals of inattention, bring it inward to the screen, to a scrap of ones and nothing, and twittering of digital laughter. Slip behind the last dot, benzos colouring the landscape. Peachy pictures. There we are at our peak. Arm in arm. Selfies. Bragging like pub bores over who got the best shot. Sorrow dissolved like sugar into smiles – all the while. No need to slip beneath the surface, because there is only surface. Travelling light. Portable thoughts to carry on.

                Dangerous times are like fine wines missing from the cold cellars of our past. Who shares what with whom was a question you never asked. My life? Like. That will be fucking right.