Stop Look and Listen

 

I’m not walking, I’m  sitting on a number 54, watching

the streets disappear behind me,

into the past.

 

I see fashionable hedges and neatly arranged trees,  road markings and

pavements. Rules.

Walk here, Drive there.

 

I see closed gates with signs saying welcome. Improvements.

Underneath the ground there are bones. Names.

Street names, logos, no parking on my street,

this is my parking space, my pavement.

 

Signs.  They tell you where you are and where you want to go,

where the important places are and what  you need to see.

No choice,

 

you can’t just wander, it’s not polite to look lost.

Lost means you’re no from here,

lost means your temporary, lost means you have something to find.

 

Lost makes you other.

 

The High Street. This is how you should look; this is what you should eat.

Pray here, my God is best, you can tell by the size of my church,

the purple silk cushions in my Mosque.  Look up,

 

there’s a blue sky and it goes on and on and on.

See that Bird flying over your head. Watch it flap on that stream of

invisible wind

Watch it soar.  Watch as it drops a shit right on your shoulder.

 

You’ll remember that forever,

you’ll remember where you where and what you were wearing,

you will remember who laughed at you,

 

that Bird is free,

that Bird can do what the fuck it wants to you,

and you’ll never forget that Bird, it’ll make you  remember now.

 

Your garden is an illusion of nature, there’s a plastic Pepsi bottle sticking

out of  your perfectly shaped hedge.

 

See that man taking a photo, a mimesis of time? Art. He’s looking

at a  square of the world, a fragment of the whole.

Make him look up and see the whole.

 

Ink.  We’re all covered. Symbols of love or hate, memories,

passions, but the ink is not important, it’s the pain,

the memory of the day you had a needle jabbing into your arm while

you told the artist ‘It isnae that sare’.

It’s that link, that ink, that journey that forces you to see that time moves.

 

Now is temporary, now is watching the colours of autumn pass by the

window and the grey concrete hell.

©Kirsty Lear-Grant

 

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