Slow Motion

Slow walks in the sunshine,
We are these people.
Wrinkles spreading like the veins in leaves,
Leaves green but now grey and sharp,
Leaves turning to ash in the shining palms of children.
Wrinkles spread like the spirals on the inside of tree trunks,
The bitter taste of what was before coming in bouts of colour and movement and of regret.
We are these people now but not always and forever.
Do you remember- do you recall- that time- that moment- that day- that minute- that picture,
Do you remember the moment that it left us and the moment that we were abandoned?
Books and gods and clouds and harps and songs and prayers and tall promises from tall people,
Tall tales to talk us to sleep.
Creams and potions and promises,
Tall tales to sagging ears.
We are quiet now and we are thinking and we are always thinking and we are dreaming in slow motion,
Odd dreams that are almost like memories.
Flesh is rotting like fruit and pickled brains are festering and we are… ruining the house,
Old boy- old chap.
The places that will be here that will always be here,
Watching us sadly as we dearly depart,
In slow motion.
As we begin to hate and pretend and regret in the gross clarity,
That comes before the clouds.
Before the cream cakes and the boiled sweets and the greying cushioned seats,
Before the rough hands and the condescension and the urine soaking your trousers,
Before the old times seep into the new times and I wait for a train,
It’s lights in the distance approaching,
I have a ticket,
I am waiting at the station for a train.
Sore joints sore heads sore eyes sore brains,
Hands rough like sandpaper,
Dance slowly next to hands smooth,
And want to wring smooth necks until they flop.
These films aren’t for us,
These images aren’t for our old eyes.
We aren’t the sexualized youth anymore,
Old friend.
We are the grotesque opposite of new,
Fresh,
Pure,
Innocent,
Perfection.
Slow walks in the sunshine,
But not in the cold or in the rain,
We see the clouds and we stay inside.
Will we be remembered?
Do we make an impact before,
We are nothing,
Anymore?
Slow walks in the sunshine,
With you and with your cane,
Something in the black and dark is gripping at my pickled heart,
I am waiting for a train.