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.

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. 

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.