Wednesday, 13 October 2010

The Level - A Small Patch of Grass in Brighton

I chose a spot on that fair patch of tended turf,
I wanted to meet the people I would love in the future.
I sat each day upon that spot and mingled vehemently,
I wanted to pick and choose my new friends and lovers.
This is Bright Town.
This is my town.
On the first day nobody spoke to me, I was a ghost in my own dream.
On the second day I was noticed by a homeless man, he wanted cash not love.
On the third day I rose from the grave and a woman named Mary asked if I was OK,
She treated me like a King not a friend. She was from Barnados.
On the fourth day I fraternised with a young girl who’d been taking drugs, I’m not picky.
She said she’d been out all night and had just taken some acid… her watch said 10am.
I asked her if she’d like to talk a while but she just watched me intently, dead eyes.
I tried to be her friend but she left to return home and watch ‘The Colour Purple’.
I can’t help thinking this was an excuse. I would have been her friend. I’m not picky.
On the fifth day I fucked up.
On the sixth day some students sat skulking, singing shit Soca songs, swilling cider & shunning me. I wanted the girl with auburn hair. She would have been my wife.
These are my friends, why do they ignore me?
These are my lovers, why don’t they love me?
I still sit on my same spot everyday; I’ll talk with anyone. Open like a book.
If I were in Bradford or Weston-Super-Mare this would not be possible.
In this town, I can sit amidst the rich, the poor and desperate with no qualms.
When passing cans of beer and fags I’ve held hands and caressed palms.
I am a shadow; only those who matter to me will notice me.
I am a monument, a fixed space in this city where everyone will recognise me.
I am a friend, my lips and ears trained only to please those who take a chance on me.
I am here. I am here.
I chose a spot on this fair patch of tended turf,
Just far enough away from the skate ramp to provide some mystery.
I sat upon that spot each day and encroached vehemently,
I still want to pick and choose my new friends and lovers.
I wait for the people who will populate my life in years to come.
I wait for the people who will mourn me if I die.
I wait for the friends I know we will be, I wait for my dinner party guests.
I wait for the lover who will share my bed; I wait for my Romeo or my Juliet.
This is Brighton.
This is Bright Town.

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