A View From The Monatgue Pike (random thoughts while waiting for Ian).

Blackwell's Books and Rush Hair
Drip drip of people passing
Bus, bus and a glimpse into the bright back window.
The West-End is always a drunkeness.
A guy sits opposite fingering a menu, trying to decide which steak to order.
Academic books and hairdressing, is there a juxtaposition there?
Is there a kind of link to be made?
The guy has been joined by a friend, he says to him:
'What if it was doubles, he'd be fucked...
'...And that's what I was waiting for: cake, not gang am style.'
They laugh, I wonder at the complex meanings they espouse
And where I should choose to place my opinion.
Idiots ripe for a slicing of my acerbic wit
Or a tragic form of human being valid in their immanent perception
Of this ridiculous existential morass we endure?
I'm superior surely? No, that is a convenient hidey hole in a perpetual desert
We are the same in our lolling pop of existence.
There is no 'better' just different stratergies
And by the looks of it, theirs is working better than mine.
But we both use Mr Al Cohol for company so what does that say?
A group of old people just came in, a whole brigade
They are chuckling and giggling and that is
Perhaps the best advice I have seen today.

Completely Normal

Walking home, nearly there.  Two men, neighbours talking to each other over the fence, ordinary, but not. One was a large black man, huge shoulders, baseball cap with tag still attached, shiny trainers and a deep baritone sinking, sinking, The other a grey haired OAP, stick in hand, hunched as if he’s playing the role, voice juddery but very much alive. They converse, a connection; laughter, laughter, they laugh together, harmonising their distinctive melodies and all of a sudden neither of them exist as things, but as air filled with mirth.  My head is split but touched, somehow something collapses in my expectations, which I suddenly realise didn’t belong to me anyway, but had been slipped into my pocket.  And there is the Real in front of me, the crack between laughing lips, where everything flows towards, disappearing inside.  Connecting the neighbours a pamphlet, the object of their amusement, they point, rear back with pleasure; a political statement by the labour party, elections may 6. The men in red never saw this coming. Next thing I know I’m on my doorstep, a warm swirl in my belly and, despite my own inclinations, the world seems like a much better place.

MG