I was sitting outside a room of feverish activity, with Susan Weatherly,

Inside a select group of people who were individually called on a rabbit tannoy to enter.

And I just waited and waited for my name to be called, I was envious of those that were called.

We waited in complete luxury, lifting our arms languorously to a feeling of silk, cashmere and mink, grasping bundles of light and energy.

And my name was not called.

She started to congratulate me , she spoke of the big musical I did when I was 15 and on the verge of being an adult - she said I was very good in it!

I said it was good that she remembered - it was incredibly emotive for both of us seeing as she played the piano throughout.

But I felt awful, my name wasn’t being called on the rabbit tannoy and I didn’t know how to cope with all the luxury? I felt excluded.

She kissed me on the head saying that  I was the most appreciated and worthwhile person she knew out of everyone she knew, and she knew a lot of people.

This annoyed me somewhat, and suddenly I burst through into the room.

I saw everyone I had ever met industriously leaning over piles of little pins and needles and tiny metal shapes!

Looking over them was a little man, who was ordering them about and dishing out more piles of metal to sort out.

I saw what they were doing but everyone was ignoring me. They were in complete labour, and I wanted to join in, I still felt excluded.

I suddenly launched into complete hysterics at the little boss man, telling him that Susan Weatherly made me feel patronized, and why couldn’t I be doing what everyone else seemed to be doing? They seemed to be doing a real worthwhile task? Like I was jealous of the inane jobs they used to give concentration camp prisoners?

Like the nasty Nazis.

Nothing would satisfy me more than if the little boss man put his shovel into a big pile of little metal filings and give me a pile. So he did.

I tried to put them into piles, but they all blew away like haze.

The little boss man was frantically trying to gather them all together to dish them out again to the select people. It all seemed so pointless. I longed to be outside again in the luxurious waiting room. I didn’t mind Susan Weatherly and her annoying asides.

No-matter what I did my fillings of metal pieces were catching the wind and turning into mist and clouds, and that was all these select individuals were doing! Just sorting through my dreams.

That was the meaning of life. I was an artist - pleasing myself in luxury, whilst other ordinary people were laborious their whole lives, doing nothing.

Susan Weatherly was an angel, I realised. She chose me to be different, when she heard me sing all those years ago!

I wouldn’t have to join in the regular work ethic of regular human beings! That’s why she rang up and got me expelled from school, just after my A-level mock exams. She wanted me to escape the path of a ritual work nonentity!

And the meaning of life is happiness - where you need to be happy in the luxurious waiting room - earth - waiting for your name to be called! Enjoy now - work is terrible but a necessary component of life!

Standing in the art

Gallery at the opening. The opening of wonderful?

With no one there except me and One other A scholar and someone he had just met walked in and told him it was a shame we were not young?

He was French? And the photocopies were wrapped in cheap wood?

She was French,  from far out west, and had the look of the paintings that were all hung on pegs, all show, for now?

"Shame we weren't there with them" "there's plenty to sing".

She was off,  my nana, off causing her mischief - same as usual?

And amplify the preferred sadness.

My mind takes an awful lot of brutish clause and

Nought

A fringe full of a frame brought together by vengeful boys

Who want the here and now

Who shout the specific explicit ways of life

Never ending wading through paths of what ifs and maybes

Effing Ali Akbar

And the glory of god fearing howls and hoots

For nothing, of nothing, if everything counted for the should

Would that should was a viable pause and

Caught - A frightened blame brought into the headlights

If everything from the 21st Century was demanding a return of the

Pretty little baths of regret and bewilderment and the boys

Who had nothing wanted to blow it up in never stopping

Fucking fear and fright knowing that pleasure

Was the thing they craved yet they could only wave away

As the ancient words written by grinding sweating

Calculating fraying and moth eaten, slightly beaten wretches

Was the one and only thing to believe warned off by the new

And things they couldn’t possibly apprehend nor lucid attempts at life

Silly billies waking, and wanking their ‘tendas’ of virgin sluts.

I believe in predestiny and showing the unshowable

That predicts the only thing to happen and they tell me

London has fallen into the boy’s evil minds and all

That’s given is ideas, they shoot poets don’t they

As life slips us by as a multitude of vagrants

Want what you have and die at the pleasure

Rather than face the sands of denial or shame

Of being human better to destroy

Ego is in results  - always in the results

One, you, chasing the mirage

One, you,  lacing the mirror with images of success you

think you have, or letting others cloud your

grey clouds or green clouds or greyish off white screen

don't let the ego be see and don’t let it let you live in the moment.

The ego trap

Live in the moment

Dive into the minute

Dream big

Scream

Keep challenging yourself and don't be defined by your past,

It will be easier to accomplish your dreams if you get over your blocks.