Questions and Quantum Insecurity

I stare at your blood pink skin,

merging into the structure of a face adored by millions (2.9 at least)

and I think you look almost perfect

against the Google image that caught my eye. 

Self-styled and sweet.  Unique and chic;

the toast of Instagram;

a fashion reich of love heart likes,

but now I wonder if perfection

can be measured in a moment?

So I stare some more at your blood pink skin,

and punch your name into Google

again, and again I think you seem almost perfect

against the definition of “success.”

Self-styled and fair.  Threadbare prayed-prayers

sent upwards from the couches,

and train carriages,

and restaurants,

across the land;

wishing only to be a modicum

of your infinite splendour.

AND then the questions flood

from my mind;

they bleed from my fingers;

what is perfection scaled against a lifetime?

So I stare once more.

I STARE hard at your blood pink skin,

and I light cheap expensive cigarettes,

and I ask myself “is this my best work”,

and I mourn the death of confidence;

and I yearn for validation;

striving to be self-styled and brave,

un-slaved and to pave

paths, righteous and true,

to un-stick pages of glue,

release works of note to un-bloat this bleak-freak world

of dopamine crazed stooges

and affiliates of the time wasting machine

of social media.

I stare at her blood pink skin,

now content I’ve selected the perfect filter.

Tomas Bird - Apple Fire 2018

Begging For Nothing

     The man sat in the same position as he had the day before, and the day before that.  There was no change to posture and the sombre look he wore on his face reflected the same thoughtful pose.  There was also no begging cup which struck me as vaguely interesting.

     The next day my curiosity got the better of me so I left the fruit market as quickly as I could and made my way to the side street where I knew he would be.

     He sat as he had the day before, and like the day before, he stared at the same spot on the dusty, chipped wall of the small coffee shop.

     There were three small holes that were not part of the natural wear and tear of the building and it was these that his stare seemed to be permanently fixated on.

     I lit a cigarette and watched him.  He remained silent and still blinking only when his eyes desperately needed to.

     The day was hot and sticky and it showed through his grubby clothes.  Even from the natural shade of where he sat, damp patches still appeared like mould on a rotting wall.

     I crossed the street and stood by his side.

     ‘Cigarillo?’

     He said nothing.

     ‘Naranja?’ I asked as I opened up my bag of oranges in front of him.

     There was no reply.

     ‘Tienen sed?’

     Beads of sweat were forming where his grimy hat met his furrowed brow.

     Still there was only silence.

     I crossed back across the street and entered the coffee shop.  You could tell that it used to be a bright and cheerful place, but years of what looked like unsteady custom and of course whatever troubles the area had seen had reduced it to a dull and lifeless shell.

     ‘Dos botellas de agua por favour.’

     The waiter looked up and it took a moment for him to recognise that he was being called into action.

     ‘Sí, por supuesto, señor,’ he replied as he clumsily placed the two bottles of water on the counter, ‘habrá algo más?’

     I asked who the man was sitting across the street.  Instantly there was a wave of sadness that clouded over the waiters face.  It was a look that said this story had not been told for some time and to tell it would require a great deal of effort and composure.

     I knew he did not have it in him and appreciated him switching to broken English to appease me.

     ‘He was owner…he was neighbour…he was friend.  His woman…his…his wife killed…he sit now…all day…I look after here…he is broken…he is…’

     His train of thought was interrupted as a customer brushed gently through the beads that covered the door.  There was nothing more to learn anyway.

     I stood outside and once again felt the searing heat bear down on my skin.  Knowing that I couldn’t stand to be outside for much longer, I went down on one knee and positioned my camera in a way that wasn’t intrusive.

     When I stood up I knew that I had taken one of the saddest photos of my career.

     As I walked past, I left a bottle of water by his side.  There was still nothing of note to see; just a pock marked wall and a faded pink streak.

Tomas Bird - A Meadow Like Path 2018

Lost in thought

as if my mind were some vast

plain of tall weeds and burly thickets;

as if I’m unable to hack any new paths.

I know I’ll need to navigate

to the soft moss and open clearings;

others will be looking to me for strength soon.

But still I find myself stumbling

in a bleak-beer haze,

legs tired from circling;

eyes sore from back-doubling;

machete blunt from allowing

problems to grow through once more.

Tomas Bird - Apple Fire 2018