roll-up boy

Your gloriously thick dark eyebrows, your chapped dry lips in most seasons except spring, your crooked eye that winks a second before the other, the way you tap the ash off your cigarette so effortlessly, the way you dance to Human League. It’s enough to keep me coming back.

So I do. Each time I see you, you are a little more perfected the way my mind wants you. Cuban cigars, Pall Mall cigarettes, roll ups. I got you down to roll-ups. Cigars made me too chesty, cigarettes made you smoke more than I wanted you too, roll-ups were cool and the least harmful. Social smoking only.

“don’t, don’t you want me? you know I don’t believe you when you say that you don’t need me”

“ I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar”

I defined you with a song. I created you with a song. With a word and a feeling. I created you therefore you do not exist my sir.  

 

she deserves the world

on the brink of survival in a capitalist world.
If you lived in a third world country, you’d probably shake your head side to side in disgust.
In London, America and even France, no money means no survival. No money will soon equal no house, no warmth, no food, no water. Yes. I live in a house with a parent who works, but she works to live. although how much living can you actually do with unlimited funds? She does her best not to worry, “ it will all work out” constantly pours out her mouth, with no conviction or belief. I can see the worry on her waned face. when she opens her bank statements, her eyes bare her true feelings. Its all so harder than she anticipated. her worry penetrates my ears when she has those hushed conversations on the phone.
rent.rent.rent.
money.money.money.
nothing.nothing.nothing.
nothing left. no food in the cupboards. at least there is water in the tap. at least there is a tap. a pipe. a U- bend. a clean water supply.

grateful for so much but so much taken for granted

I want to be in a place where you live to work. going to that field every day. even Sunday. saying hello to that blazing star, checking up on my favourite crops, learning the local gossip from the flowers. PICKING OUT THOSE DASTARDLY WEEDS.

Its no different in third world countries, the only exception is money. money is replaced with life. working to feed yourself, travelling miles for just one droplet of water to fill that void.

there is this girl I want to shake so hard that her brain falls out, thus I can help her rearrange her brain. This girl is so very ungrateful, so selfish and conceited. more so than me. you. and probably your Persian cat.

she never looks back when she says goodbye.

that’s how conceited she is.

 
but cos’ we’re on the brink of survival does she have the right to act like that?

to be selfish, rude, unkind, inconsiderate, ferocious? to look out for only number uno?

 

Is it a coping mechanism?