The Night-time Rose Vendor

There's a man that walks around the city each night with a bunch of red roses in his hand. Individually wrapped. He goes into every bar and restaurant, trying to sell them to customers. Perhaps not every bar and restaurant, but I've seen him in the handful of establishments I haunt, infrequently. I've seen him walk the dark streets, alone, cellophaned roses resting on the crook of his arm or held in his fist like a burning torch. The restaurant owners tolerate him. More than just tolerance - they greet him, smiling, as he comes to pester their patrons. I've seen people decline politely. I've seen others meet his gaze with nothingness; a blank stare, a lack of comprehension. Why would I want a rose? Why is this man interrupting my dinner? I've seen girls look down, slightly slighted, as their beau says no.
 I have yet to see someone buy one.

I wonder if anyone does? How many roses does he sell each evening? What is his day job? How much to they cost, these roses he's selling? How much profit does he make?

How many more like him are there out there? I have seen them, these nocturnal restaurant-to-restaurant trinket-mongers, in almost every city I've been to. Walking the lamp-lit streets with flowers, or novelty sunglasses, or flashing headpieces. Shouting their wears, or approaching with quiet hope. Being told no, over and over, or hastily exchanging cash with drunkards before they change their minds. Where do they come from? What are their lives like? Who do they go home to at night?

There's a man that walks around the city each night with a bunch of red roses in his hand. Individually wrapped. The next time I see him, I am going to buy one.

five seven five

Half empty boxes

and a lungful of paint fumes. 

Good strangeness. New flat.

Indifference

Indifference is a strange beast. It mopes around all day, nowhere in particular, doing nothing in particular, going in some direction or other and not feeling particularly anything. Indifference sometimes walks on four legs, sometimes on two, there's not much difference, it doesn't mind.  It doesn't look like anything much, and it doesn't care. Some would say it was grey; others say beige. It's happy either way, although happy would imply that happiness was an emotion it was capable of. It was capable of it, but wasn't really capable of caring enough to actually feel anything. Maybe it was capable of being capable but just didn't care for capability. It didn't matter, either way.

Indifference mopes around, getting in nobody's way, harming nobody in particular, but not particularly pleasing anybody, either. Just leaving the people around him rather indifferent. A wake of indifference, bland and uninteresting.

That is not to say it is not a very dangerous creature. Indifference is to be avoided, certainly, though nobody would think it. Nobody fears Indifference. But Indifference can crawl up inside of anyone (it doesn't mind who) by any means necessary (or whichever is easiest) and stay there, not caring particularly for staying but not caring enough to leave, either. It will slowly invade your heart and your mind and your soul (if indeed, we have a soul, but don't ask Indifference because it hasn't much of an opinion on the matter). It will pervade you in your entirety, and you won't even mind. You will barely even notice. But therein is where the danger lies. You will become accustomed to your new Indifference, and it will control your every move with the same indifference with which it controls itself. You will be lost to indifference, and you won't really want to find yourself.

This is why we must hunt down Indifference and cull it in its thousands. Every single one must be exterminated if we are to save our species. It is absolutely imperative. We must take arms against this vermin, our greatest blight.

All we need to do is care.

Bilangue

Going there is like
shrugging on a stranger's
coat that fits me well
enough. It keeps me
warm, but it's a little
tight on the shoulders,
and I can't always
remember what
I put in which
pocket.
(A piece of gum does
not mean the same thing
as a hair clip,
though it could perhaps
be substituted.)

It feels like writing with
a borrowed pen
with sporadic ink flow.

It feels like kissing
a stranger.



Coming home is like
slipping back into
shoes you've worn
for years and years
but never stopped
to think about,
because it feels
like wearing
nothing at all.

It feels like
getting on a bike
after five years
bikeless.

It feels like
speaking after
two minutes'
silence.

Like breathing,
after holding your
breath.

Like a Fish out of Water

I saw a pigeon drown today.
I didn't realise what it was, at first. We were looking out over Camden Lock when we saw a strange creature floundering around in the water. It was flapping its wings repeatedly, uselessly, like a child's attempt at butterfly crawl. It was too sodden, too low in the water, too franticly hopeless to be a duck. That was when we realised it was a pigeon.

I laughed a little. It was comically ridiculous, to see a pigeon swim. It was, so to speak, a fish out of water. The opposite, in fact. Then I was filled with an awful sadness. It was utterly helpless. Its tiny body floated just below the surface. Its beak was barely held above the water. Its wings grew weaker; they flapped less frantically. I pictured its poor pink feet below, clutching at nothing. I wanted to help it; but had no intention of jumping into cold London water to save the life of a pigeon. So we watched it drown.

It didn't drown immediately. It gave up, for a while, and just floated there, still and quiet, little pink beak held high, in vain. I wondered if, perhaps, it would try again, try and flap towards the edge. But it just stayed still, barely floating. Four black ducks sat stationary, several feet away, watching. Birds lack the instinct, or the intelligence, to save lives, it seemed.

Suddenly, a big white gull flew down to where the pigeon was floating. For the tiniest instant I thought it had come to save it. Then it pecked the pigeon's neck, several times, hard, and began to tear strips of meat from its sodden, ragged corpse.

The four black ducks watched for a few moments. Then they glided past, slowly, one after the other. Like hearses in a funeral parade.

No Smoke Without You

Some say love is
like a fire. But
I don't think
that's quite fair.
For me it's just the
smell of smoke
that lingers
on my clothes.
In my hair.

Self-Love

Looking at old photo albums with
you, and all the pictures of me
make me smile. Two years old,
all blonde curls and dresses in
acid-bright Technicolour,
tasting first ice-creams
and wearing my
mother's Raybans.
I look at them and I just
love myself.
A strange feeling.
I don't think I've ever
loved myself as fully,
or if I ever will again.
Not as much as I
love analogue-photograph
two-year-old-me,
slotted into plastic
sleeves, smiling
back at me.