vomit story

I’m always shocked my rudeness, by the mean- and I’m always shocked that I’m shocked.

The young man was sitting on the steps going down to the Great Northern rail and the Victoria line at Highbury and Islington at 7:35 AM on a Tuesday. It’s busy at that time in the morning, yet I had just been thinking that it was much quieter than normal. I think I was about to ask the man if was ok when I noticed someone was already doing it, or perhaps I’m making excuses- I should have asked him. This second man was on his phone, (which is an odd thing to do when you’re underground, perhaps he was listening to a voicemail). This man, I think he’s a builder because he’s got those work trousers on which have lots of pockets, they’ve got paint on them and he’s wearing a florescent jacket, he’s saying ‘something, something… you can’t sit there man.’ He’s aggressive, he’s actually angry. I don’t think people enjoy sitting in crowded smelly stations. He doesn’t stop moving, he marches forward, looking back at him and sneering; his upper lip curled to show yellowish teeth. The young man, the first man, who I now see is pale and green, his eyes chubby and pink, cheeks swollen, he says, meekly ‘I’ve just been sick,’ and he gestures the wall next to him that’s splattered with clear acidic vomit. I just keep walking, I have to catch my train. Now I’m on the train and I’m thinking of that young man walking down the steps, suddenly hit with nausea, trembling stopping, dropping his laptop bag, clutching the hand rail, people shoving him as his liquid breakfast churns and comes up and out. He had the sort of face where it could be anything, he could be an alcoholic or an addict deep in pain, or maybe it’s cancer and today is about to be the worst day of his life or the chemo has split open his insides, or maybe he’s got sick from holding onto a rail on the tube that had recently been licked by a 3 year old tummy bug toddler then he bit the nail on his thumb, thus ingesting those pesky germs. Whatever it is, I’m sorry he’s having a shit day and I’m cross that I didn’t ask if he needed some help. I could have walked him back up for air, out of the

(This is when I realised I’d missed my stop.)   

dust

Do you feel sorrow or remorse for giving up on that dream or did a new dream appear?

One the meant more?

Or did you just grow up, dust of childhood fairy dust, rust up.

Did you let it go with ease, without doubt or pain?

Did you simply let it slip?

Let the priorities change.

Did a part of you change or did it move away,

did it go and leave you hollow?

Did you try and cling on with finger tips to slippy cliffs?

Did you think it might still happen, but that you must let it go for now, 

then did it return too late?

Did you mess it up?

The time was now and does that hurt?

Do you feel pain?

Do you blame others when it was you who walked away?

Did you slice up the dream with razor blades, keeping parts for rainy days.

Throwing the rest away?

Did you think that it was perhaps never really me, that was going to be that anyway?

Did you think you weren't good enough or did you just say that to try and be tough,

to tuck away, to fold away, what you really thought.

Did it have more courage that way?

Do you feel like you settled, lied to yourself? 

Or am I wrong and it is the greatest simple life you have.

Needle spoon

Only five years or is it a whole five years?
I don’t know. 
Years too long or too quick. 
A trip slip and sink. Only just. Step missed. Twist. 
Throat closes and tiny air squeezes, drips through. 
Prickle stab. Gut grab. Drab. 
Empty meaning. 
I feel bad black blue. 
The messages stopped. 
You gave me a feather today. 
Grief is scattered, wrapped in coal boxes.
Opened once again today. 
Stinky sting gift. 
Don’t forget but move forward. 
Pushing through. 
Tight spaces too fine. 
The needle spoon. 
Too small. All too.