Parker is my friend and trusty side kick, together we will change the world.
The litter decorated the grey with colourful bursts of kebab boxes, floral depictions made of carrier bags and misfortune. The sun shined on the alcoholic residue left behind on the beer bottles that were cast aside. The cans reflected the sunlight as the lakes and rivers once did. The grass grew a crippled brown that matched my boots. The oceans were made of tar and the fish of tin cans. London puffed on those familiar exhaust pipes, all the time enhancing her addiction to life. The dream was all backwards, the world turned inside out. Emotions were living, rage lived just down the road. The living were dead and pulling the unplanted flowers from the ground… the ones that were never sowed.)
An epic flow of rain ensured the cars got a good wash last night. So heavy was the down poor, Parker and I were forced outside cocooned in curiosity and fascination. We stood there staring in amazement at the weight of the water on the world. We also laughed a little at the world’s disregard for the trendy hairstyles that paddled there way home. We stood there for quite some time, long enough to be soaked right through. There really does come a point where you cannot get any wetter. Eventually you become part of the rain. The rain sank in to my skin, cold and concerned. The water rushed like an army of bandits to the nearest drain, to hide away from the world. The fire escape that we were sitting on had become a death trap. The pathway had become a series of life threatening rapids. All we could do was sit and hope the chaos would pass.
All of a sudden I noticed that Parker was weeping. His inky life blood was being stolen by the bandits that rushed to ground. The blue ink waving a tiny image of marble over my left boot. An inky script that was quickly lost in the ever pounding rain. I began to feel anxious and concerned for us both, my fingers now turning a little blue.
I reminded Parker of a time when I had been this sad. The tears like the rain just wouldn’t let up. With that I pulled my jacket over my head and my knees, creating a small cave. With the rain hitting hard, we didn’t have much time. The fabric of my jacket was wilting becoming heavier by the second. I pulled my battered notebook from inside my sock and wedged it onto wet knees. With my left hand still holding my jacket over us and the bandits racing through the night…
Parker took up his post,
And together we began to write…
I’m trapped in a box,
Knelt down tight,
Crying my eyes out,
For my life I’ll fight.
For as I cry,
The box it fills,
With my tears,
‘Till I’m drowned,
Still trapped in my box,
Dead in my tears,
And the lid remains locked!
By Spirit de la Mare aka Li’l Literati. Brighton 2001.
©Spirit de la Mare. London 2010.