Life/Less Poem by Blackie Brown

Vacant expressions, shallow superficial talk, obsessions with the pettiness of work. Is there nothing behind that glare wishing to express, no part desiring something greater? How is it possible to live in eternal lockdown, lobotomised by the folly of perception?

Know this man, a company man, business and pleasure. He talks of work though no one cares, fails to perceive the boredom in their stares.
I wonder, does he care? Is conversation to him merely a functional neccessity, an appendage of his ignorance? Can he be converted to sense or is he forever lost, cast adrift, bereft?

Know this woman, a bird, a lass, can sometimes be a laugh. Seems happy enough playing out the role she first learnt upon receiving a christmas present at the age of seven, a Fisher Price kitchen, complete with plastic food. Was it this that got her in the mood, for motherhood, subserviance to nonsence, to clean, gossip and brood?
I wonder if the food she eats is as tasteless as her subordination? Did her world never cease to be plastic? How sad.

Some couple I know are oh so nice, have a strong bond, known each other for years. If only they'd take a roll of the dice, treat themselves to notions nice. The home they own is tidy, they've a car each, how handy. On sundays they wash 'em, quality time spent together, oh, a life of this forever; 'let's go to B&Q, see our rennovations through, maybe splash out, buy a pot plant too. Then we'll go visit your aunt.' She's probably lost her marbles by now, lets go round and sit in silence, speak to her like she's a kid, fail to commnicate, fail to demonstrate why she ought to find'em. After that we can go home and watch come and praise, drift away in front of the telly, Sundays are always such a haze, oh aren't we rebels, drifting off to Harry Secombe, did you even eat your toasted teacake? What are you like, what a waste of the butter, she'd often utter.

If the world's a stage, with the man, the bird and the formulaic couple are playing out their roles, what's become of their quest for experiential goals? Did they not once have aspiration? Was the world never a bigger place? Is it not possible for them to finish their scene, to see the nonsense of where they've been? Can they not take off their costumes and play a role to suit themselves?
Can they not recognise the arbitrary manner of role distribution, see the absurdity, formulate a solution?
How does the fat man in the suit fail to laugh at his costume, fail to congratulate Jim's portrayol of a vagrant? Can he not see the beauty of his performance? Can we not take a look at the script and laugh together, go backstage, exchange hugs and return to being ourselves, truly being ourselves?

I look at children and they give me hope. They say what they like and act on it too, hanging out with them's like a trip to the zoo. All noise and colour, action and play, more than anything, I care of what they have to say. They put soil in their mouths, they spit water on the floor. Sometimes they get up real early to watch cartoons, othertimes they'll sleep in if they like, maybe head on out to ride their bike. Either way, they don't second guess, lifes for them's of living, not some stupid test. They do or they don't do, you can't argue with that. You can leave them in a car park, tarmac without decoration, they'll find the fun, light the place up, go for a run. They paint the sky with laughter, beat the floor with frenzied scurry, everything's about now, always in such a hurry. Isn't that how its supposed to be, living in a flurry?