When I’m sad I eat
And when I eat I cry
Because I’m fat
Becoming round and rounder
And coming back to where I started
Eat, cry, fat, round
Going round in circles
When I fall
Will you be the one that picks me up
And if it happens again
Are you the one to tell me what I’m doing wrong
Even if I’m incapable of learning
Or ignorant and angry because of my own mistakes
Will you help me on my feet over and over again
Or do I look up one day and see you standing there
With all the others laughing at my autistic awkwardness
Still not understanding how my brain works
100 Years ago there was no reason
For killing 100 Soldiers on a day or more
100 Years today
There are 100 reasons
That we’ve learned from 100 Years before
To live another 100 years again
Without a war
WWI 1914 – 1918. 100 years ago.
265248 Private Robert John Smith of the 9th Battalion, Norfolk Regiment, died in Flanders fields, 21/03/1918, Born in Mattishall, Norfolk. Enlisted in Norwich, Norfolk. Gerry Francis’ Granddad. Great Granddad of Annette and Chris and Malcolm. He and so many others gave their lives for us. We will never forget.
They are automatically assuming that making choices means one of them is wrong but you know it’s right and you listen to the rhythmic click of the weldings in the rails whilst your train is leaving.
In your head a train of thoughts is running and you wonder if the road ahead is really what you want and you realise it won’t make a difference with the loneliness that lies behind.
The spray of steam and soot from the locomotive hits the window while you try to look past the landscape that is moving there in front of you before it’s getting dark in an hour or so from now and lights will pop on around you.
You don’t want them to find out you are heading for the late Summer sun on the vineyard you are traveling to, that place in Toscane that you saw in a movie which you wanted to be in so long ago.
Meanwhile your train is going southbound through countries that you remember from when you were young, through the landscape with the river and then mountains follow cold and dark and high.
And everything will be alright you think because you will be a Gardener for an old rich lady sleeping above the garage writing down your memoirs on an old typewriter that you found growing old in the evening sun with a glas of wine to salute the day.
Faster, faster, faster.
The dry heat in this dead town is murder
Your mouth is desperately longing for a beer
And your gums are aching they are bleeding red
Because they’ve had it with this French Baguette
You are longing so much for the soft warm skin
Of the woman that you love in your own bed
Against yours upstairs in your own home
Just a moment ago the Barley besides the road
Was waving frantically with the summer wind
Of the slipstream behind you of your car
Now you taste the salt on your dry lips
You were bored for hours at the beach
And you ask yourself yet again
What am I doing here?