In a place of learning
The cops come down on us like hornets, clucking condescendingly, their hands fidgeting over their guns.
"Smells like good dope, looks like trafficking"
They puff out their chests and sniff out our weaknesses quickly.
They run our names in the system. Ask if we smoke crack. If we shoot people. Laughing, they search every cranny.
They're an inch from our faces. They breathe in our nervousness and the sunny morning seems colder.
They are like sneering, menacing robots.
Eventually I tell them a joke and they stop pretending they're going to beat or arrest us. We traipse off, shoulders hunched, "Thank you, Officers".
Now can you go and fight some real crime, sirs? Stop sand-papering my glass. Fucking pylons.
Tomorrow I'm going to search out some water. Put my feet in it. Get some work done with my feet in the water.
Like some kind of brittle plaque filled capillary, so froze my Tuesday.
You wouldn't believe the lengths I've gone to just to avoid the crunch, the grind. I've sweated, shaken, ran and ran, I've burned and toiled and fucked the man. He came to soon - no buck no bang.
One day: all of my jibberish and all of the shouted and whispered and mumbled phrases which rocket around in the olive groves will be sucked into each others orbits and begin to rotate in unison, they will find their grooves like needles on a vinyl record, and will take shape into a brilliantly blinding and ironic piece of art. I promise, guys. I just need time. There are too many things sand-papering my glass.
And I've got to separate my day to day me from the me that stars in this piece of art, the one in the dark red theatre lights who keeps perfecting the character arc.
"My nights, my days, you have borne so much!
All your branches have retained the gesture
of that long labor you are rising from:
my days, my nights. Oh my rustic friends!" - Rainer Maria Rilke
Not having reaped you, oh my days, have I let the slow flames of your produce fall to ashes?
Oh my days, have I let you fall to ashes?
Oh my days!
"Smells like good dope, looks like trafficking"
They puff out their chests and sniff out our weaknesses quickly.
They run our names in the system. Ask if we smoke crack. If we shoot people. Laughing, they search every cranny.
They're an inch from our faces. They breathe in our nervousness and the sunny morning seems colder.
They are like sneering, menacing robots.
Eventually I tell them a joke and they stop pretending they're going to beat or arrest us. We traipse off, shoulders hunched, "Thank you, Officers".
Now can you go and fight some real crime, sirs? Stop sand-papering my glass. Fucking pylons.
Tomorrow I'm going to search out some water. Put my feet in it. Get some work done with my feet in the water.
Like some kind of brittle plaque filled capillary, so froze my Tuesday.
You wouldn't believe the lengths I've gone to just to avoid the crunch, the grind. I've sweated, shaken, ran and ran, I've burned and toiled and fucked the man. He came to soon - no buck no bang.
One day: all of my jibberish and all of the shouted and whispered and mumbled phrases which rocket around in the olive groves will be sucked into each others orbits and begin to rotate in unison, they will find their grooves like needles on a vinyl record, and will take shape into a brilliantly blinding and ironic piece of art. I promise, guys. I just need time. There are too many things sand-papering my glass.
And I've got to separate my day to day me from the me that stars in this piece of art, the one in the dark red theatre lights who keeps perfecting the character arc.
"My nights, my days, you have borne so much!
All your branches have retained the gesture
of that long labor you are rising from:
my days, my nights. Oh my rustic friends!" - Rainer Maria Rilke
Not having reaped you, oh my days, have I let the slow flames of your produce fall to ashes?
Oh my days, have I let you fall to ashes?
Oh my days!