Marooned between failed Hamlet
and the fat guilty knight,
between insanity and self-destruction
and a broken heart,
if we are lucky the currents take us
to the Isle of Bloom.
Henry Flower sat in the little restaurant waiting for his noodles, a cheap yet nutritious meal, the staff always friendly and welcoming. On this particular evening he had chosen to eat here because the waitress had given him such a beautiful smile on his previous visit. She quickly brought him a bowl of mutton soup, and he drank a few spoonfuls before his main meal arrived.
Like a ghost he walked the streets
a monochrome ghost, old and grey.
They had told him the lights were bright
but he had his filters set, and, they would say,
it all smacked of the lamp.
From the dark of the night, girls rushed past him of slim, trim, and oh so fast electric bicycles. Sometimes there was a eye contact, as they sensed the alien among them. Cold grey horror. Alone later he would dream of mountains and hidden valleys, cooking fresh meat on an open fire, the scent of woodsmoke.
I know thee not, old man
Henry Flower religiously stoked his optimism, and counted the many ways in which he was blessed. It was true that they mocked, but they could not harm the simple pleasures that he took, innocently, when unobserved. He scratched idlely his aching battle scar and looked up into the dark night sky at the sound of a distant rumble. Where would he sleep? There was rain coming.
There is something to say about gold
About the stories so often told;
Barabas was picking his nose
Preparing himself for the blows
The buildings were tall and in truth the lights were bright, but the only water to be had was in small plastic bottles and Henry did not feel at ease. He had one time slept under a hedge, or at least he thought he remembering doing so, but it had been a restless night. In the morning he had found himself embroiled in a special forces training exercise and had had to plead most humbly to be allowed to be on his way, all the time his bowels craving their morning release.
Sometimes a car without lights would pass and each time he crossed the road he would pay a little extra attention. Nothing.
The photographs and the text are my own work. Thank you for reading.