Before we’re wrinkled and old

87% of the time I have no clue about the steps I am taking. Do I change direction, do I keep moving, do I walk in someone else’s shadow or do I side-step into another fast lane that will inevitably lead me to the same sticky conclusion I was in before all these questions began. One step forward two steps back. No money, no food, no heating, more rejections, more stupid people pissing me off one step forward two steps back. I’m getting a headache, I’ve got a headache, I mean I had a headache and now I’m thinking about the same shit as yesterday and the day before one step forward two steps back.

I read about a guy called Sisyphus once, in fact I’ve read about him a few times. Sisyphus, a mortal man condemned by the Gods to ceaselessly struggle with the weight of a rock to the top of a hill only for the rock to roll all the way down to the bottom. His punishment was futile and hopeless labour with no end. Sometimes I think we are all like Sisyphus, blundering through life in futile and hopeless labour because in the end it doesn’t matter one fuck. But wine is good, and smokes are good, and books are good, and sometimes people are interesting and sometimes there are moments in your day that make your veins flush warm like the sunshine rays through a window. Rock and roll. One step forward two steps back.

I wrote this poem about a week ago on the steps of an old building when I could hear someone crying and arguing, I was wondering what was wrong, but then I wondered if it mattered.

Before we’re wrinkled and old.

We should be lacing hopes for youth,

Instead I’m chasing smokes, uncouth

I’m cutting loose from the shackles

Of the broken truth

 

But it’s irremediable,

And I can’t answer the Sphinx

 

I’m shouting out to Sisyphus

How can you see through the chinks

Of armour? You’re just like your Father,

Stuck with a boulder asking what would you rather

 

Sisyphus, I can see the pain on your face,

You’re getting older everyday

And you’re not leaving a trace

So tell me, before your shit gets displaced,

 

When you’re looking in the mirror,

Do you think you’re a waste?

 

Sisyphus, I see you every night

In my dreams, I spent too long

In my reflection now I’m singed

In the dream, and now we’re bowing

Down to gravity in the final scene,

 

So tell me, before we’re wrinkled and old,

What the fuck we’re supposed to do

Before our stories been told?

 

So tell me, before we’re wrinkled and old,

Before our stories been told

 

So me I’m taking my time

Looking at lines outside in,

Harmartic declines, divine, discoverings

Creeping thin, right down to the last syllable

Of our Mother wings

 

Smothering innocence,

Ignorant belligerence  of the other things,

Young flings.

Walk the tight-rope with baited breath,

 

We’re all just waited death,

Like coffee granules in the sink, yet

On the brink,

We’re just like Sisyphus, luciferous

Can you not see through the link?

 

Have a think.

 

Before we’re wrinkled and old.

Before our stories been told.

 

 

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