The cars know where they are


The window in my hotel room wouldn’t open,

due to the contraption

they had added to it

to prevent people from

smoking,

so i opened it,

robustly,

and now i can smoke.

I look down as i smoke

and can see numbers

on the floor

for the cars to know where they are,

33…32…31..etc.

I’m glad the cars

know where they are.

I spit on the cars because it is simply

impossible

to not spit

when you are

at height.

I am in Oxford, the seat

of learning

in England, although

those in Cambridge 

may beg

to differ.

Earlier i went for dinner.

I ordered the ‘pan fried’

cod,

with saffron courgette’s,

and then waited.

I guess i appeared

to be lost in thought,

preoccupied

by something

else, other than the

people in the

room.

This wasn’t so.

I listened to every word

available, from every

table nearby.

What i heard confused me.

Everyone spoke like Hugh Grant

and had impossibly upright

postures.

I almost laughed at the

cliché,

but couldn’t,

and felt only shame.

I felt like a train wreck

sitting there

in the corner.

What the fuck are these people learning?

They seem so content and well-adjusted,

and i don’t understand what they say.

They are young, so i forgive them,

but as i started in on the cod,

i wished only to casually walk

over to one of their tables

and scream at the top of my voice…

“What the fuck are you going to do

when your lover is coming at you with a knife

because you were ten minutes

late with their

heroin??”

I walked to the till,

paid,

then walked outside

into the

rain.

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