Yes Instead of What?

By: Rorshach 1004

Date: 1st February 2016

Whenever I want to feel down, I can go down town, to the site of nothingness, literally nothing I can walk, and watch, and buy a coffee from a Polish girl. I think she was Polish, but she could have been Ukrainian, or anywhere in the EU really.

She said milk. I thought she said mirror. The bloke next to me translated, thanks for that mate. He’s used to it. I’m not. I couldn’t understand a word of what she said, and so I said ‘yes,’ instead of ‘what?’

Why bother to communicate when ‘yes’ will suffice?

Yes, I’ll have the milk.

Yes, I ordered the toastie.

Yes, I’ll pay my bill, my taxes, and my funereal rites.

But no, I will not wait in purgatory.

The big no, reserved for the self, the others always hearing yes, the no a surprise, keep it to yourself.

This blog is purgatory you know. Like town, it’s there, but what does it offer?

I have stayed away, and I feel good about that.

Return to nothingness is always painful.

A review of the latest 2000AD- Hero Pat Mills shouts, readers complain about ‘conspiracy’ stories their minds directly controlled by central government thought control Inc. 

The enslaved hate it when you talk about their chains. You will not go there. The man with a whip says it’s untrue, therefore it must be untrue. I have no chains. Why look for myself? I have far better things to do with my time.

Like?

Old Man Wolverine #1- Nothing to say, not going to try. Time travel genre, to change things before they get worse, revenge for future insults. Fantasy cult of personality, avoids the urgency of now.

Play here children. The house is on fire, but isn’t it so deliciously warm?

Why bother to play?

Childhood is over.

Endless rut of my own routine/perception wants me to stay, but I break away.

In purgatory’s circle you hear nothing, cept the sound of your own voice bouncing off the boomerang walls.

I used to live here, and stare at those walls.

Now I visit, and see where the dust grows.

Down town in the library, closed terminals, there’s a metaphor there.

Now nearer back home, the crumbling old Link Centre with new entrance system. Interior the same, access now modernised. Another metaphor? Something about modern change being on the surface level only? I suspect, actually, I know.

And I sit here complaining to purgatory thin Australian walls.

Hit this, back in my face, dull-hurts.

A joke played upon myself, for want of something to do.

It's okay.

Time slips away.

But I see the exit.

Oh look, a post in purgatory.

A stain on the wall.

Scratch and sniff?

I turn.

Leave.

Yes or What?

Ascending.

The image is from here: http://www.harthosp.org/InstituteOfLiving/AboutUs/OutsiderArtCollection/default.aspx?cHT=Laura%20Pierce

The Comfortable Cage of Sweet Routine: A Day Interrupted in Swindon Town Centre

Poem by: Mark.A Pritchard (aka Rorshach1004/Swindon Poet)
Date: 3rd September 2015


Sweet routine, you comfortable little cage, on tracks I roll, going where I always go, but suddenly, leaves, a red stop sign, the comic book shop has a little notice on it’s closed door.

‘Gone for an emergency, back before 12:30pm at the latest.’

So I’m waiting in a coffee shop, not the vulgar ‘Friends’ type, the old fashioned type, the type where you sit at a little wobbly table, brush the sugar away, and watch for wasps.

I sit eating a brown bread cheese and onion toasty, with coffee.

The coffee is black, and much nicer than I thought that it would be. It shocks me into wakefulness, banishing the routine, the dream, this is reality now, and I’m forced to stop, stare and think about it.

The shoppers fly past, ignoring me, as they ignore each other, this is society, no communication, just little tracks of routine still running.

I watch the routines fly by as my own tracks are delayed, thinking back to mornings five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty years ago.

I have changed, but am still the same, sitting alone as I always did, not because of any reason, it's just the way that things are, and I do not question it now.

I finish up my coffee and there is a little smiley face at the bottom of my cup. He’s smiling at me, wishing me a pleasant day. I smile back, is this communication?

I sit up, the Polish waiters talk amongst themselves, and it’s almost 1pm. The comic book shop should be open by now.

I walk for two minutes, it’s open, the stop sign turns to green, and I’m back to my old routine again.




The beautiful image at the top of this poem is ‘Alone In the Crowd,’ by US artist David Derr. You can find his work here: 
http://fineartamerica.com/featured/alone-in-the-crowd-david-derr.html

Swindon Town- The iGeneration- Passing me by

I live in a nice little English town.

Swindon town.

There’s a football team here.

And a magic roundabout.

The former consists of those that want to be somewhere else.

Swindon shops, always busy.

The later is a traffic jam in the middle of the town centre.

The people here, in Swindon town, live in little houses, and in their cars, and at work, or school.

Occasionally they walk, or cycle.

Plugged in to ithings.

Listening to something else.

Going somewhere else.

I watch as they pass me by.

They’re so busy.

On their way to work.

Or school.

Or shopping.

Or whatever it is that they do.

Because I don’t really know what they do.

I can guess.

But they don’t talk to me.

They just pass me by.

Off they go.

The magic roundabout, always busy.

Whoosh.

Whoosh.

Zoom.

Zoom.

They're so busy.

With so little time.

I live in a nice little English town.

Swindon town.

I’ve lived here for over thirty years now.

There are people here.

Nice people.

I think.

I don’t really know them.

And they don’t really know me.

Are we happy?

I don’t know.

We don’t speak.