am (23/June/18)

not one but two, not two but three, three names I have, maybe four, could there be more, how can I be sure I wondered now and then before, not one but two but three but four and maybe more… there’s the name I never was so instead became the compromise I am… there’s the nicknames that’ve dogged me through the years though most left littering the verges of a past misspent, not many though they are, they are and have been and will ever be until…there’s my pseudonyms, surely not my names at all except they are too, become integral to the time, the place, the when and where behind which lay this very same face, some young, some old, some older still onward into footsteps taken… there’s two for my first and not three as some assume and much to my chagrin some do… but am I my name or is my name me?… have I become it or have I made it fit me like a glove, let it burrow into me, wound itself inextricably until the seam is near-invisible, does it grow and age and die just the same as I do?… does it stumble awkwardly from my mouth or from the lips of others?… when I hear it, even after all these years of being me and still am me, it still sounds strange… how often do I use it, this thing, this tag, this label, this flag, what is mine, my own, me, my name?… rarely… and to this day still feels strange to hear myself say it, something I avoid at all costs when possible… am I am who I am who my name tells me I am?… my name, names, the one, the two, the three, the four and even maybe more where the bones are buried underneath the floor…

© 2018 robert greig

scraps (17/March/18)

there’s a weary solitude to the morning… will it snow, will it snow, will it snow I ask, I ask and ask again of the solitude masquerading as morning and yawning surreptitiously into light… will it?… hush……
it’s a scrappy day.. I can feel it… can you even begin to imagine how many words have been written in books since writing ever first began, and imagine counting them, even guessing… and how many are lost, totally, shreddings, confetti, ashes….
rain, rain can wash it all away
(but will it snow…?)
the colour, the fog, the noise, the fear… sending it skittering down drains swilling to the sea or deep into the cracks and fissures of the mantle, to seep into geology locked forever among the unfound fossils that no one would believe anyway growing ageless in their airless cavities, while out in the wide not actually blue oceans it’s swallowed, diluted, sheared of identity in exchange for some kind of uniformity, all provenance, self, subsumed into the selves of others….
rain will banish it…
flay it from the skin as if it wasn’t ever there… a chance of starting over always in the air… evaporation…… dark and light are just different jackets worn to suit the weather… but will it snow?… new skin please, my old one has worn out, a little worse for wear, under the weather one might say…
I despair at the human condition… carving out lives from thin air with no foundation and nothing to break their fall from their imagined lofty heights…… fall is inevitable, whether by your own hand or that of others, fate or not some things are what they are what they are… like the weather… but will it snow?… that’s what I’d like to know…
falling without hitting the ground is always going to be a, as they say, big ask… as in the end, and ends are as inevitable as beginnings, gravity always wins…
but will it snow, will it snow, will it snow I ask, I ask and ask again… see, I told you today was a scrappy one, sweepings off the floor, the sort you’d use for teabag, the thrown-aways… even the gulls are restless again, gulling away, even they want to know will it snow…… talking of gravity……

© 2018 robert greig

eggs for breakfast (6/Feb/18)

it’s ten to ten
is it?
yes…
good-o
think I’ll go to bed then…
at this time?
yes, why not?
a bit early isn’t it?
is it?
I mean, it’s not even 10 o’clock, or “ten of the clock” as they say
do they say that?
I supposed someone must…
ok…… and you’re right it isn’t 10 yet, it’s ten too…
indeed, I stand, or as I’m sat, sit corrected
it just feels like bed time to me, being winter and all, dark, has been for hours and hours, like everything outside has already beaten me too it and is well on the way to slumbertown…
I see, well yes it is dark and has been for hours and hours…
are you going to repeat everything I say now?
… no…
good-o
oh, good one, sneaky, you slipped that on in under the duvet that’s for sure
I have my moments…
so it’s ten to ten and you’re off to bed then… I made a rhyme!
[flicks eyes skywards] I feel like I’m tuning into something, finding the darks wavelength and resting the dial just… there… just there between the static and some far, far away foreign station whose language I have no idea of… I feel it could slip off any moment as analogue dials are prone to doing, design quirks an’ all… I’ve found the frequency and daren’t move it now…
wow, sounding all a bit profound there
thanks?
albeit it a bit over-egged…
over-egged?
a bit yes
you comparing my stream of philosophical consciousness inspiring revelations with something on the breakfast menu?
keep your hair on, oops you don’t have any [mild self-giggle], you don’t even eat eggs for breakfast, what do you care?
I don’t, that’s true, but I might… sometime…
might? when?… when have you ever eaten eggs for breakfast or have even entertained the idea of it in any foreseeable, entertainable future?
admittedly I never have, again, can’t disagree on principle… actually, I tell a lie, I have, once, when I was 13…
well, that hardly counts…. so what did you think?
clearly not a lot as I’ve, as you say, never had them for breakfast since, anyway the point is…
what is the point?
the point is…
yes?
it is….
what?
… that it’s now ten past ten and I’m way past my bedtime…

© 2018 robert greig