To those who lost their footing
By Parson Thru
I’m spending more and more time telling myself I no longer care.
Morale is being expertly maintained by Madrid’s legions of beautiful women, making their way through the Metro and the leaf-sheltered streets in an unavoidable assortment of summer-wear.
I know. They’re not doing it for me: some middle-aged greybeard with a developing paunch.
Maybe someone, somewhere finds the poor bastard attractive on his journey through the days.
Woman in the red dress.
Girl across the street.
Should I ignore them?
Are they there to be ignored?
Who’s kidding who?
A tyranny of flesh: who is it for?
And the alternative?
Cover it up?
I think I prefer Freud to Mohammed.
Nothing personal: I have a general problem with magicians in the sky (credit to whoever said that first).
The Metro’s pretty crowded still. It’ll ease off in July-August.
We’re waiting to be hit by Muslim nutters.
I don’t blame the Muslims, but I do blame the nutters. And I blame the people who build and maintain the system that creates them.
Of where am I a citizen?
Matron May tells me if I’m a citizen of the world, I’m a citizen of nowhere.
Well, I don’t want to turn this into a pissing contest (which I might win), but I think my system predates hers.
My root might be my poor old mam.
She won’t move from her stack of bricks. Palace-cum-prison.
Or it might be my girlfriend, who drifts more than I do.
I said I’d stay sober earlier this week. It was a solemn promise.
Outside this bar, it’s forty degrees. The A/C is noisy, but welcome.
What the fuck was it like before A/C?
They say it’s arrived a month early. No one remembers it being like this before.
Last night’s dreams.
Hello people. I must be missing you.
Apologies where they’re owed.
A blindman, walking on a knife-edge. Holding on.
Even to the last.
I owe it to those who lost their footing.