If I became a blue thing
whipped gem-like from the cold,
spiritual in your street
like a lone bike lamp,
like a man walking a dog
with sky-coloured hoodie on.
If there’s light like a spider web
on the windscreen of a parked car:
it’s an echo of me yesterday.
I guess I just have to take my time.
I’m against consumption capitalism
that has marketed the generational divide.
You can fuck your x’s, zees and why’s.
Stars spit light through night cloud.
I’m alive. I’m listening to The 1975.
I’m a blue thing shot through time.
– Mark Mordue ©