Face that way and walk out of the building.
Face that way and walk out of the
room. Keep it comic or dramatic – just not
tragic. Separation of drone and you.
Separation of drone and you
No revisiting past glory, or
tacking things back together
with your ex. A long day’s
journey into more: this is
family core. Smell the soft
fragrant cake. You visit a friend in hospital, there’s a
woman there, maybe seventeen? ‘She looks yum’, you say, intending young. Her
headphones cost more than your clothes would fetch flogged to the drunk naked rich.
She smiles at you, and says you look like a young Heidegger.
Touché, you’ll have to google
that later. There’s always something
phony, making life credible or
bearable. Right now, it’s you
Right now, it’s your fake Filipina
Twitter account, based on stale gay
Saudi gossip. The stronger the self
the weaker the planet. Try to only
hurt things within reach. Borrow
words to say. Bring faces, frappuccinos, fruit to
your own bed. Cultivate a new fate. Nothing else will happen today.
Toby Fitch remixes this poem for The Lifted Brow portion of this issue.
War Doesn’t Happen
1 October 2015