I will waste no more time complaining or attempting to articulate.
I am waiting for this thing to happen. I am waiting to be fully realised. I am not sure whether I need to do anything whilst waiting, or if it will happen by itself. Like growth. Like ageing. Like death.
Mine is a story about continually attempting to evade capture, and the simultaneous desire to be held.
I thought I’d write some nice poetry about horrible times:
I respond to violences
see or sense,
does not mean that I am psychotic.
I don’t think in images, I am images.
This is what I have been meaning to tell you: I think in rhythm.
I am always syncopated – it is because I am black?
Is it because I am obsessed with invisible things?
It’s day two of my private dances.
You are all public. And my body is an animal.
It must be hard
not to have multiple personalities
and who knows about those days that were before.
London; I have everything I want aside from a future.