Shakespeare in my ear.
Shakespeare in my chest.
Heart art and sound,
Knowledge stale and stagnant I fear.
Here I will digress.
of maybe thoughts profound.

But more likely not.
Shot my mouth out.
Blank and un-comprehending.
Stop, just stop it.
I want some sort of stimulation,
Variance. A new way for this information to go in.
Black faced and blank.
All this artistic, exclusivity and wank.
Want for inclusion, understanding and good ideas.

Why are you teaching us like this.
What’s got you so stuck in the past?
God, my eyes are sandy.
My soul dishevelled.
Maybe its my status.
Not sad, not happy.
Just waiting, some kind of transitional space.
Without a trace, blanket emotion.
I could get sad,
drunk to fell, to change.
Occupied in my space, only just.
And yet my age.
My age is something I thought on.

So 20’s. What are you fixated on. Sex, drinking? Meeting all kinds of folks.
Being a bum. Occupying yourself, by whatever means and needs you dream and deem necessary.
But 30’s something changes. You spends ten years feeding into becoming a working cog.
Bogged down in some idea, the safety and hospitality of society.
Wined and dined, feeling like everything will be OK if you just produce something.

Pretending that any one person fits my build.
I don’t think right now I like anybody.
I don’t want or need anything from anyone.
I want to be alone.
But even then the dissonance,
the need for some kind of company.
Doldrums, they have been described.
Maybe that’s what it is.
Gosh, I could bitch about this or that for hours.
and nobody would listen.
And why would I?
To what effect? Some kind of expunging of emotion.
My nervous tick?
My twitching chest.
The soreness of my left ankle, left foot,
my tired back, my bitten lips and terrible right shoulder.
The knee that will never again be the same.
The swim I never went for.
The face that is too wide.
The hair that is so unruly.
The smile with its chipped teeth.
The neck that’s too thick, like the legs that lay beneath.
the twain’s splitting from the body.
The hunger, farting, digestion.
Swelling, and sickness.
Ravenous, narcissistic inconsistent.
Wintered sitting soul that resides within the basic and boring body of a middle-man.
Not top or bottom despite the polarized feelings that flit from one to the other.
Back and forth, but only landing for the briefest instant.
Those mistakes of the unconsidered words that I so often preach.
And hairy, like a peach, my sickness grows.
Mold, festering heart of stagnation and indignation.
Maybe I just need sleep.
Rest and a day off.
The psychological battle of being accepted and knowing people.
working for the friendships,
of my underarching happiness,
inevitable as it may be.
The smell of old hippo-meat clings to the air as I enter the flat.
Put your bongs down child.
Embrace the world for it may still possess something nice.
But why do I apply onto others.
Let them be and do as they please.
Why aren’t I happy with what I have got.

Am I? Must I? Be so affected.
Is this subsistence of existence an example of growth or learning?
Yes yes, that’s certainly something that happened.
But the ship has sailed and left me on the dock,
and now I feel like i’m wasting away.
Don’t fear your bleeding teeth,
my red-reproduction – so joggers bladder overflows the cauldron of my mind,
and more. The taste in my mouth, bitter, acidic.
The coffee I take now, in a takeaway coffee cup.
The dread.
Defeat, the change which has come over me isn’t for the better.
I have lost.
Lost and lost, lots and lots.
And now I am no more, than the barnacle or cyst of one that clings-
To a chair. And man, is the chair of the board.
Bored of sitting. And yet it is just this that I must partake.
For god’s sake.
Take from me these horrible and blind feelings.
Let me sense something more,
push boundaries and experience new and exciting things in only this respect.
Where once I rode up hill, worked hard, sweated and enjoyed envy.
Not I sit miserably, un-laughing, growing fat with downcast wonder.

How can I break this.