CONCRETE_OLYMPUS_

it’s played out on Instagram selfies of the bows he carved then an old stone church the kind that no one prays in now he posts scripture  nice paintings of saints  oh spelt ‘o’ lots of love for Jesus  I’m happy for him he was unhappily married and he seemed to hate his wife who seemed to hate him too he was a pagan friend to the earth  spiritual but unattached clawing at the divine   he lost friends, a wife and found god not as a substitute for those things I suppose but perhaps in a void of opinion and the comfort of kindness he found a pathway who knows  

a cold English autumn morning says  the  day can be just this  just sitting in morning clothes on unwashed skin bare armed and sockless sitting in the cold and feeling it meet  the body’s warmth the cold mug and the warm coffee leaves yellow  no call to arms like a summer morning  no fear you’re having less fun no ambition more  than another cup

this boarded up tower led to by concrete stairs with discarded black balloons and a dead rat was built by young minds  in old heads see I was born in the future  when the now was space, electricity and lasers it was tomorrow  loading pixel by pixel from a frail cassette see they stopped showing rocket launches when the rockets exploded and cynicism and grit returned when the future became ridiculous and now utopia is caked in dirt, tags, beer dregs and party balloons  see im looking up from a bus stop sat with people who saw this built more than fifty years ago and thirty years since this was nothing else but the other side of opportunity is longing and regret seems we’re not ready for the new that we only know how to respect empire give us cloud cover and we’ll piss, rob and get high and so now the utopians are unapologetically dystopian and leaving for mars

  all I had was a hot shower the luxury of steam clouding the cold damp orange bathroom with a towel waiting for me that never dried down the hall was a bedroom  a garret in a cut up house with a broken window which the cold air poked its fingers through a bed a desk and a chair where I sat with lonely sad pornography and a printed photograph of a love whose visa had expired the hint of a creative career behind me and now more unnecessary education a poorly paid job and a sad mother dropping a sad man back there was no reason to leave the shower the timeless warm comfort the simplicity of soap and skin and a task we can all get right to turn off the tap and watch the steam fall like a needle lifting off a record and returning to crackle to let the cold air back in this is where I was when the text came a two part text that stopped me still it said I was going to be a dad and I knew this wasn’t good enough