I wanted to

disappear, live

elsewhere; be






am I really here,

in the empty hours

strolling the streets

after noon when no

life stirs behind

the shutters?


on the lawn

under the leaves

pierced by star



on the platform

at dusk. the rails

sense the trains

a mile away. the wind

blows scraps; stamps

of boots down the stairs.

this is atmosphere. my

emptiness. the march of

my conquerors – dear,

I’m in a fix – somewhat

fucked but that’s

nothing – not war

or anything but

nerves; white people problems.

which is…existential angst. that’s

what it is. but it’s still

real: it’s no cruise

up the Congo, but it’s not good.




I’m in the car, driving.

the lights on amber.

I’m on my way to school,

or somewhere, fast.


I might be high on the balcony,

in my vest at dusk

watching the passengers

step onto the pavement.




I won’t shy from saying you’re beautiful; or say it

with a grin, conscious of being sentimental.

that way is like meta verse because

it’s scared of being, falls

into cynicism, flat; a voice

in your head that says: you’re nothing,

this is nothing, really. so,


don’t try.

be ironic. self-deprecating.

life is just to die.


well, fuck that.

4 thoughts on “meta”

  1. thanks Jason. i think the movie, one of them, was on this 1 time while i was in the room, but i was too tired, or maybe drunk, to absorb it. i have a vague recollection. long time ago. 20 years? or more

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