Written By
Poet and Photographer J H Martin @ A Coat for a Monkey
NFA
I wake up
And I’m on a train
I pass out
And I’m in a station
Drunk
Hungover
Drinking
Somewhere
Walking backwards
Through the morning crowd
Talking sideways to the passers-by
And nodding at a stopping stranger
Who tells me that she understands
Something I do not
Daylight – street light
Could be – I am
But the what and the where
I am not sure
“Sorry”
I do not have a screen of my own to touch
And I have no fixed direction
For the ground beneath my feet
Always moving
Always changing
A bus a train a plane a ride
Another unknown place
From Topoľčany to Poi Piet
From Tongzi fields to Burma clouds
It’s all grey then green then grey again
Like those eyes on these ever changing faces
Watching me as I watch them
Passing through our passing frames
All disembodied disconnections
Buying Monday tickets for Sunday trains
Like lovers like friends like family
All of them gone – all of them void
Like the roots of a tree
This body this feeling and all of these memories
They are so easy to see but so hard to stop from spreading
Like the motorway laid over my childhood home
Like the rash running up the back of my legs
Like the supermarket stood
Where my school was
Like nothing that ever was or ever will be
Had ever once happened
Who am I? What was I?
I have no idea
I have given away all my change
And rolled and smoked
All those discarded butts
Which flicked their laughter at me
“No…”
From here to there and back again
That roof of stars is the only law I recognise
And that too bright sun
Which blinds my eyes
To all the billboards and all the barriers
Is the only promise I trust
“Come along now”
There can be no more running and no more delays
Not now the guard has spoken
And the police have been called in
“That’s it mate – up you get – you know you can’t sleep there”
“Yes I know”
The walls are being burned back by the night
And this world of mind
Is returning me to the same space – wherever I am going
Image and text © J H Martin
J H’s Previous Contributions To Edge Of Humanity Magazine
Life On The Irrawaddy’s Muddy Waters
