Creative Writing, Venue

I, who watches

I have not a coin in my purse, but this weighs as no consequence. Nor am I a lonely man, hence I am rich in friends.

My wealth lies in those acquaintances with whom I make habit to chatter and- pontificate, drink tea and eat cake,

Supermarket beer exchanged with a clink of glass necks, a cold sip of cheap bubbles to open apart our case of words, of my companion and I

Whom with I discuss the day before us as we see it and the world whose face across we stride.

On park benches, upon beds out-stretched; on a mattress, in comfort or in duress, in times happy or bleak, when in high spirits or when depressed by the week;

Sat in bars or in cafes, across tables, over nights or through days, we watch the cracks in the ceiling, count the coffee stains on our table or take note of the free-flowing moat of human life that borders us, the quick-footed rush who glide past in this vortex called Norfolk, their eyes and thumbs lost in the bright electric tangle of Twitter or Insta.

And a moat it is, not a stream or a river, not a ribbon of water that has its own path to follow, but a moat, human life a moat, whose circumference seals my vantage point;

For though they say no man is an island, an island I am. Upon my shores do I stand to see the sea, in its varying clothes and colours, that tide which we determine to be, life.

I sit with my friends, no poor man am I. As I said, as I say, a wealth of friends have I and we eat your beautiful nonsense, the snags of speech, fragments of your concerns and distractions.

No sir no sir, oh please I concur with your judgement that I sit here alone, on this brown sofa in this blue Unio, I sit on my own but sir I am not alone, for I have pen in hand and paper beneath me. I am writing, I am writing. Sir, I am not alone, for I need only so much talk, only so much speech with which to beseech hard feelings of lonesomeness, for I am content to see the sea, the water of skin and scarf which rolls past.

I, I who watches, at times in company, at others solitary, it is neither here nor there who should I be sat with, who should care. I enjoy the taste of others’ words but they do not always need to be fed to me, I can catch them from the air like Turkish perfume, sugared powder in my ears and salt on my tongue:

Everything dissolves and bleeds out onto paper. This, your words isolated and crystallised, I present to you.

21/11/2017

About Author

liamheitmanrice



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