Inconceivable choruses, embraced by synths that are residually cavernous, reassuring. I know with reasserting intensity that I have remained because I am desperately chasing the crux that’s now invisible, an essence inflamed by incendiary festivals and extreme, long-winded summer carnivals. Vestibules of heat, nurtured safe feelings. I was still chasing this fallen vibe towards old red telephone boxes dampened by creeping winter nighttimes. Aching when left wanting at previously uplifting mega-stations that were vast mazes of concrete and bright monitors. I needed to give up but there was no chance that I would. The urge possessed me, it transfixed me but also held me back. I was tempted to succumb to the notion that, even though I would have to accept that my struggle wasn’t leading to any little victories, those memory-shelled sepia flickers could at least remain go-to bright sparks – even if blackened by superseding doubts – where I’d plunder really-there or subjective after-glows that might benefit me on the darkening stretch towards the short-day solstice. I sniggered with the intensity of a maniac when I convinced myself that I would always be able to fondly recall all past instances of glory. I was bathed in uber-bronze rays in the realisation that I could, eventually, tell myself anything I wanted – I was the story-maker after all. But, under this, I was pleased that a few of the affirming snapshots were undeniably true and unique to me: my mind kingdoms. They landed as though they were autumn-strewn leaves, auburn-shaded and crinkly light. But there was little tangible evidence for me to help show any naysayers that I once ruled over the townships. No matter. From some angles that improved the situation. No one was getting to those encased fragments, the iridescent epic smile-flashbacks that already began to fray a little around the edges. There I was in the dawn-greyed pub, watching the surround-sound BBC News plasmas. There I was too posing for photos in the empty-road circle somewhere I can’t remember, maybe at the rear of the Dickens park. There I was again hope-invigorated in some E&C greasy spoon with the fixed plastic chairs, small-talking about big things with a collection of found-again comrades. A lifetime of scatterings. In the more brittle days I cling to the degrading joys of the past, basking in the slight layers of security. Where is it all leading? I hope, to a brand-new place that conjures even a flicker of the early-decade promise and the safeness of those hugging territories. The river is a crossroads – delightful tinfoilish sun-static on the ripples, as the stream heads towards Kent marshes. I wade into it, temporarily forgetting the nonsense tribulations that afflict and paralyse. I row the boat, I rejoice in getting out.
© Copyright 2017 John Maher