Between The Breezeblock and The Portacabin

my hubris,

is in the toilet (portacabin at Glastonbury{son, you've never been, never seen, never danced under the stars at Glasto})

/Wish I could/

my rational

is in the pantry (with stale bread and rancid mushrooms)

my mind

is in the gutter (with all the vermin of the human disgrace)

/No, wait, I don't/

my conscience,

is seared and battered, trashed and tattered (I believe it was strong)

my arms,

feel heavy (before when I had some grace?)

/wish I could apologise for being me/

my life,

feels heavy (after I've fallen from said grace)

my eyes,

can't focus (with tears and the Sandman's dust in my eyes)

/even if it's who you don't want to see/

my ears

can't tune in (Oh Mr Sandman, won't you please let me be)

my mouth,

tastes off (of or off, does it matter, it tastes off and of offness)

my heart,

is full of love, hope, hate, charm, cholesterol and misgivings (like everyone else)

/even if I'm not who you want to be/

despite all these flaws and there are many, let me tell you

despite all these flaws as I was saying,

I am not done yet, not done yet by a long chalk

I will breathe (in and out, in and out, don't stop, don't give out) the atmosphere in my lungs one more day

as the sun rises and sets, guiding the moon to close it out, one more day

because I can be special in my own special way, mercurial in my own peculiar way

Like everyone else

Imagine we were boring, looming over the entire earth in a boring, unintelligent fashion.

Imagine we were never looking to complicate things, to fall in love, create art, draw paintings, sketch self-portraits, write punch-drunk love-sick melo-aladies.

Imagine, we were far more interesting than we are.

Even when you look and think you're not, you are. In your own way, your own special way. You are.

There's something - a spark - filament waiting to illuminate the centre of your world.

Like everyone else

"Navel gazing is far from lazing when navel-gazing is the elixir for a failing hubris" - someone smarter than me, perhaps, wrote those words in the heat of a fiery, passionate encounter with a breezeblock and too much caffeine.

"The silent killer of all great men and women of achievement - particularly men, I don't know why, maybe it's the testosterone - I think it's narcissism. Even more than hubris. And for women, too." - known narcissist James Woods

If it feels like an aside addendum off-topic, off-theme slight then it probably is or isn't. Who can tell these days?

Feed your hubris, feed your gravitas

Like everyone else - live a life mercurial

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: So, just wrote this. Off the cuff-like. I'm not sure how I feel. But, I like it.

For something more straightforward: