suburban reflections part 1

There is nothing worse than colour. Nothing more i wanted to spit out of my mouth, and i could only find destruction at the end of my good intentions. Never mind. Cracked knuckles, broken hands. The fact that i have ceased to believe in my vocation.

/

Grins softly, makes no sound. Has as it were a grimace, an absence of sound. Speaks instead of shadows and empty courtyards. Silly facades of fate on flickering television screens, the aborted foetuses of backyards. Wants grim council estates, or phantoms in rainy nights tracking down the latest fashionable hatreds.

We are their children, you and I. We are the true lost roses, the kids defiled, the unborn satirists of a neglected dream. We are the children of the skies and the ferris wheels, autumn nights outside the playground in nineteen eighty-six.

How we could dance if we were only joyous children! What words, poems, curses, we could whisper to each other, waiting, as if in rigours of love, for the phantom of childhood and easy steps home... To lit chambers, untold duvets of awful bed.

There are no paths left where once we wandered. The girls we loved have all grown up, have gone home to sleep or be happy in grimoire pubs with landlords and bright lurid flowers of electric light like semen blooms, that pristine white. Instead we have a series of empty rooms, and emptier streets, lost even now to their last inhabitants, who are afraid even to dream.