181103

Final notes. The clanging noise was the cry
Of a radiator wanting to bleed, my neighbour
Advised. My social life re-awoke, with drinks in
Shoreditch, Camberwell and the kitchen. Now
Trying to read the work of Rimbaud but doesn’t
Do it for me at all.

Have learnt much about single life
These last five weekends. The aimlessness
I am not yet used to; the more random
Nature of living; the suspicion of incompleteness.
Which could be no more than a suspicion
(But how would you ever know?)

It still feels as though the only way to prevent
Disintegration of the self is through the dogma of
Work, even when the value of that work prompts
Hazard lights to think of flashing. But the other way,
Of cross-legged contemplation, serenity, sweet Karma:
This eludes me for now.

Saw a man thrown from his moped to tarmac
On Commercial Street and now I wonder whether
The thoughts that went through his mind
As he danced through the air left him sated,
Or wanting more. He got up and walked away,
Unscathed, scot-free.