The Blues in P Flat 2/19



Most days I wake up,

Knowing I have to spend the day at work.

On these days,

I always wake before the sound of the alarm.

My conscious stirs in my sleep

And uncoils the awareness,

The hindrance of another day

In someone else’s pocket.


We wake like this.

The weary souls of the world

Shuddering in the skins

Of a society feigning the go-get-em attitude.

Tagged with invisible numbers

And filed through a holographic day

At the office,

Behind the counter,

Under the fake-white flouros

That ping and fizz

Like our compliance,

Growing flat in the hours of the day,

Like grey lemonade

in offwhite sunlight.


I wake up again.

My phone is in another room.

I don’t need it.

Two dogs,

one old,

one new

Scratch the back door.

I put on my shoes,

Stuff dog shit bags in my pocket

Flick my radio’s switch

And walk out the door,

Leaving the sound of German classical music

To play for dead blowflies,

Bent umbrellas,

And linoleum.


3 thoughts on “The Blues in P Flat 2/19

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