Intimations of madness that lasted
For years long along the way, en
Route spoken in ways too wrong
Too many times, seen as regular,
Hollow-voices noting nothing at all
Unusual in a paradigm powerless.
Futile to affect change, only brought
About over decades, a dry voice cackle
That calls of old days, a numbers game
Lost in international trade, rare forgotten
Despite the mad distance, yet how few
Acolytes know the fall of a saviour’s
Whispers of the long dead suffer silently
For wants of their former lives, those
Shouts of the entitled living call harshly;
Streams lost amidst the clamour for more.
Belief subliminally given to a cause
In which deception plays a great part
To draw more than is its lot appointed
Is yet just a propped up, sordid loyalty.
Disbelief in joint experience,
Guffaws with group assurance
Alike to a mob tendency agreed
With self-importance and the use
Of charms granted by chance.
Dramatic stories told reflect
The vicarious lives led apart
From points of reference true
Like dirty stars burning barely
Through their dry and broken crusts.
Something has changed, eternal shift ever
Of paradigm to new design, unintentional
Moments segue from style to fact when
We are not looking, twist and turn slightly
From the mainstays we once knew.
A tiny touch of coolness in things
Which was absent before, drawn
Into being by circumstance, natural
Motions made in life’s course, force
Of alienation badly unexpected.
Perhaps this is the way things work,
Which we do not expect to develop
Within those social storm systems, tided
Over by weathering these conflictions
Of pressure collections, cooler and calmer;
A tropical new world outside, warm.
All journeys have an endpoint, a final part, and now I embark on this one.
Approximately 2 weeks in Portugal were followed by the scattering of my grandmother’s ashes in the river. She was named for one of India’s rivers, after all.
2 trains will take us back to Birmingham, then a bus to home. I am tired, so very tired…but the experience has an end.
*feeding the ducks and swans post ash scattering
Today I write of a strange vitality, the harsh wonder of experience. I am running out of painkillers, in a manner I had not anticipated, and while on a family holiday.
Having misjudged my situation I now have 7 Tramadol remaining. Aching from various mental stresses the day before yesterday (yes, mental stuff becomes physically manifest) I attempted buying Cocodamol here in Portugal…but left with strong Ibuprofen instead. Turns out you need a prescription for Coco.
Now I am down to rations.
I had thought I was doing well. No Cocodamol for months now, days off the herbal painkiller Kratom, as well as reduced doses. I brought none of it with me this holiday. I still do not think doing so was a mistake but I did badly miscalculate my needs.
To try and remedy it I had an extra Prozac yesterday. I know, I know, it has longer term effects, but based on how much of the holiday is left I thought the extra Serotonin would help my many pains.
Wish me luck.
Today I break with the usual programming to bring you something different. Instead of the usual poetry (or cheeky vape ting), today’s post is on something else.
On holiday in Portugal for the 2nd time with family, I have taken the opportunity to photograph the graffiti when I can. This graffiti is salient because I have not been able to figure or find out what it means.
No further explanation
(but feel free to tell me!!).
Enjoy the pictures.