2024, London
Saturday morning
Bus stop
Cool air sun glow
Green leaves tree and
Headphones flower song
Plucked by algorithm
Humans expect transport somewhere
Humans expect transport
We do not know
We do not know and
We do not know
Fall into the empty space and let it hold you
They say
‘It’s about the journey not the destination’
I miss my stop
Because I am too busy writing this poem
I miss my stop
Because I am
Fall into the empty space
This zen shit will be
The death of ‘me’
This is the first of a series of poems, which I will post shortly in the poetry section, inspired by journeys across London in 2024. The literal destination in each case was a reliably delightful game of doubles on various North London tennis courts. I was the first sub when one of four guys who played regularly could not make it for whatever reason. When this arrangement first started I was quite conscious of my outsider status but by the time I was writing these poems I was beginning to feel that I belonged, which was a lovely thing. This literal destination never features in the poems which always focus on the journey. Each poem is a miniature life, another iteration, and so the destination is death, although what ‘death’ is can be ambiguous. Here the conclusion of the poem is marked less by a sense of ending and more by a humorous gesture towards the dissolution of the self, that artificial enclosure that our culture imposes on experience, and a ‘fall into the empty space’ of reality, our absolute interdependence with the world.
Yes To All Of It 