Author: Allen Austin-Bishop

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The Inconvenience

The inconvenience of the coincidence, left me infused with the confused and the determination to be a lot more pre-dict-ta-ble.   As it is told, my country of birth is a mere coincidence (much like Columbus’ coincidental boat ride to India – so I’m told). My ability to read and write?  A coincidence,  no explanation needed.   For every affect there must be an effect, [so I was told].  If we can explain it via the science, then what we have is a ‘coincidence’ (con in science)

Coincidence is King, and I am its joker.  I choose my words carefully (and not so carefully, sometimes).  But why had I even bothered!  It is coincidence’s words that hail supreme.  My words (and my thoughts) screamingly falling behind.  ‘Coincidence is dead, long live Coincidence’.  I am a walking and breathing example of the inconveniences of my all coincidences – from my birth to my eventual death.  ‘Cause of death?’ they will ask. Coincidence. 

I once fell in love (ok maybe more than once, I will admit),  the crazy drug-like euphoria and rush a coincidence.  Or have I, once again, fallen into the con in science?  And dare I say, by coincidence, I too have fallen-out of love, which I can assure you was both totally and utterly inconvenient: I left infused in the confused but now, feeling much more content in knowing it was all down to a mere…. coincidence.

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To No One in Particular

Back in the day, I was the guy you called for a pint-and-a-punch-up, 
back in the days when I didn’t drink.  Who do you call now, with so many moons passing?  
I saw what’s-her-name some time ago, it being a fragment of my imagination.
She asked about you, but I couldn’t remember her name, so I ummed and ahhh’d until she walked away. 
Another fragment I won’t get back.  
Nor she.

“Everything changes, if it’s allowed to”, 
tattooed on my arm, to remember.  Read over and over again.  
You said that to me and I tried to understand.  I’m still trying.
Everything changes, if it’s allowed to.
Back in the day when I didn’t drink,
I was the guy you called for a pint-and-a-punch-up, 
Who do you call now, if anyone at all?

To, No one in Particular:
I nearly wrote you something last night.  The words came, but so did the shame 
followed by my embarrassment, so all you get is this.   
…Three days later I came up with this …
I wanted to ask you to hold my hand, to lay with me
and tell me everything was going to be ok, 
to tell me the one lie I needed to hear.  
Who do you call now?  Is it what’s-her-name?  Her and her passing moons!  
Or is that too, just a fragment of my imagination.
I want to hold your hand, lay next to you as you tell me.

Everything changes, even when it’s not allowed to.

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It Takes a Village

Bombardments, I see them in the distance, but realise that only a selected few know that truth.  I am a see’er.  It sounds mystical, because I am.  And we – I’ve not knowingly met another one, but I know they exist – are.  Mystical.

It takes a village.  Bombardments seen in the distance.

See’ers are trained to be indifferent.  Not on the outside, but in.  Indifferent to indifference to everything they see.  I mostly hear (which is odd being a see’er).   

It takes a village,

it takes a village.  

The others – the see’ers who I’ve not met, but know they exist – want me to be quiet, not on the outside, but in.  ‘Keep quiet‘.  Well, for  me at least.

Bombardments, I see them in the distance, but now realise that only a selected few want to know that truth.

It took a village to keep us quiet. 

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Words Don’t Matter

Words don’t matter, that’s why we read them.

Turning the pages, dirtying our hands with dried ink of someone else’s words.  Let me read your hands, so I can tell you of your past and maybe your future. ‘Once upon a time’. That’s how every fairytale starts. Once, we had, upon a time, something to say. Upon a time, once the words mattered.

But now, we have signs and symbols as replaced letters; as “lol” to “😆” (or is that “ 👁️ ❤️ to 😆?). If the letters don’t matter, where will the words go?

#TheLettersDon’tMatter

Hashtag.

Hash –

– Tag you’re it!

You are the ‘It’ pronoun. Undetermined. You say all the right things, as if answers are copied on your hands. Like a student cheating on a test, #YouTrytoCheatatLife. You have all the answers, with a Hashtag sealing your victory.

You win! You. Win. Your prize? An ampersand – fully spelled out.

Hashtag.

Tag –

– Hash!

I wanted to try it (hash), but you convincingly remind me of the last time I tried it (tag), painting the image of me stricken with the fear and paranoia.  So instead, we drink hibiscus tea. Sitting side-by-side, our polite slurps the only sound, as we redefine a night out.

I wish I had chosen hash.

The words don’t matter. To Shakespeare they did. ‘Out damn spot, out’; ‘To be, or not to be’. ‘A rose by any other name…’

Shakespeare never used hash …or tags.