Member-only story
Non-Woke
Somerset evening: cider mainly,
The reddisk of the setting sun
I stumbles among the trees and roar
to the gods of the lost trees:
A rustling army of fallen leaves abound me
Encircle me, quite. Alcohol blushes reach walls of cloud
A visitor from the north, that’s me
Gravitational lines pull us apart
as friends of yours come and go
An elderly uncle sails over the trees
Means nothing to me. An end of twine
A sort of connection links the now and then
In clenched teeth I pedestrianise memory
Deviation exists: forward, backward, right, left, up, down
I do not frown, I just observe the sun in agony
Scream: Forward! And the leaves are attacking me
Furiously, mercilessly. In vain…
Now there is silence
I remember this hard rain …
Streets turn into mushrooms, an acid paradise,
Four-legged mammals clatter into asphalt
I hear the Stones of the city, their sympathy for the devil.
As all things drift to phosphorescence
As suddenly the clouds part
You I see the sun trying again
To lift my spirits in this last campaign
Nobody grunts anymore
We are all so sophisticated?
Statements made into questions?
All that puerile shit. That’s it.
What’s more? I die for.
