To those who lost their footing

I’m spending more and more time telling myself I no longer care. 

 

Morale is being expertly maintained by Madrid’s legions of beautiful women, making their way through the Metro and the leaf-sheltered streets in an unavoidable assortment of summer-wear.

I know.  They’re not doing it for me: some middle-aged greybeard with a developing paunch. 

But, hell. 

Maybe someone, somewhere finds the poor bastard attractive on his journey through the days.

 

Woman in the red dress. 

Girl across the street. 

Should I ignore them? 

Are they there to be ignored?

Who’s kidding who? 

 

A tyranny of flesh:  who is it for? 

 

And the alternative? 

Cover it up? 

I think I prefer Freud to Mohammed. 

 

Nothing personal: I have a general problem with magicians in the sky (credit to whoever said that first).

 

The Metro’s pretty crowded still.  It’ll ease off in July-August. 

 

We’re waiting to be hit by Muslim nutters. 

I don’t blame the Muslims, but I do blame the nutters.  And I blame the people who build and maintain the system that creates them. 

Go figure.

 

Of where am I a citizen? 

Matron May tells me if I’m a citizen of the world, I’m a citizen of nowhere. 

Well, I don’t want to turn this into a pissing contest (which I might win), but I think my system predates hers.

 

My root might be my poor old mam. 

She won’t move from her stack of bricks.  Palace-cum-prison. 

Or it might be my girlfriend, who drifts more than I do.

 

I said I’d stay sober earlier this week.  It was a solemn promise.

 

Outside this bar, it’s forty degrees.  The A/C is noisy, but welcome. 

What the fuck was it like before A/C?  

They say it’s arrived a month early.  No one remembers it being like this before.

 

Last night’s dreams. 

Hello people.  I must be missing you. 

Apologies where they’re owed.

 

A blindman, walking on a knife-edge.  Holding on. 

Even to the last.

I owe it to those who lost their footing.