Talking Through Fingers

I sit looking out

on the never ending stream

of cars and bikes and mopeds.

The moon rises three times a day

and fights the sun

with an endless un-tiring menace.

Stars dance among the candy floss clouds

through millennia of worm holes

and galaxies untold.

Who am I,

when did I get here,

how did I fall between my own feet

onto the hard surface of the warm ground,

where millions of soles

have tread through rubber bottoms,

the holes in my eyes

let in too much light

and secrete the tears of my ancestors.

They turn in their graves

when I sit on benches watching the red buses

fly by with hundreds of thousands of hands

and feet attached to limbs of soul-less beings.

Where do the trees hide in this urban metropolis,

the people’s eyes scare me,

dark with desire of material possessions

and the flesh of their neighbours,

can’t always see into their souls

when their blinkers are down,

running the gauntlet of life

with their Armani attire and fashionable haircuts.

I am but a boy in the body of a decaying star,

burning out without any of the magnitude

of my brothers,

a lost soul among the air and particles of disease.


I sit here with cigarettes burning my throat

with an inkling

of the cancerous delights that will inevitably eat me

whole like the fast food

that runs down the throats of the obese

in a land where taxes pay for the dead,

the living don’t get much of a say

and I am but a hypocrite,

killing myself one roll at a time,

rolling on like a skimming stone,

flying through the air

with the grace of a car

crashing to earth

from a hundred thousand miles of oxygen.


Walking these streets is a barrage of energy,

the people with their papers

and briefcases

and scarves

and gloves

and cold wind whipping through their defences

to make them susceptible

to the diseases of the city,

the diseases that infect us all,

no escape anymore as we crawl

to our deaths in the polluted gutters of hatred.


Get me another drink,

pour it down with more drink

and erode my intestines

with alcohol to numb the pain

of negativity that forces its way in,

through all my skin and muscle,

the flesh that dies day by day and day by day

I watch it,

as I watch them all without knowing their names

or who they are

and I will never talk to them,

as only the insane talk to people they don’t know,

so I’m stuck in here

talking to myself through my fingers.

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