there is a small stone bridge between two towns that has a two man toll booth 5p to pass two old guys sit side by side - one with a liverpool fc cap, love on the knuckles and status quo in the soul - his colleague is made of gravel and fingers fixed in a heavy crane claw we wonder how much they make - fists of 5 pence pieces - £100 a day? £500 a week? we joke that they blow the £500 each weekend on booze, drugs and women and then monday morning arrives they meet at the toll box each at their own door the river black with a milky mist head and it starts again with a single 5 pence piece dropped in to a strip club paper cup
dad sat among us a jelly fish dry on the sand swimming in thoughts his residued face stoney i imagine it like being under water faces above the surface through squints a soft weaving glimmer of colours voices in excited flocks tommy wants to say his name to see how he’ll respond but there aren’t many connections only a click trying to flame we are the next generation’s manure the crunch of a leaf under bare feet here is youth, and here is death meeting as promised
our time is a curved horizon that curves until it doesn’t i swam in my time resisting the urge to paddle a hundred thoughts churned and each limb itched to move i sank in my time and a memory came of a loud clock in a silent room - the smell of the dust of old things and then the relief of a TV too loud and time being just what’s left of the current temporary thing i have feared the time of old age understimulating and over stimulated an ocean of time but a mind on repeat and oblivious to it a loud clock to remind you it’s there, but it’s regular tick also signaling it leave i want to lie in the saline water that holds me still with a mind only for the sky, cold chest and warm face and the music of time that swells long before and after my body is within it
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