I saw, knew, none of the best, a few people, lacking conviction
disinterested in life, whiling away the time, uncommitted to either
self-destruction or redemption. I saw them in Londis hesitating
at the biscuit shelf, or in the beer garden, mildly rowdy after
four pints. I watched as they went to work dissastisfied, came home
irritable, Sainsbury pizza in plastic bag. Without talent, without
vocation, without values, fatally directionless. Who prepared
perfectly nice meals in their kitchens and after eating, did the
washing up and wondered what to do with the time before bed.
Who went to nightclubs from a sense of obligation and danced
also from a sense of obligation, who greeted their friends, heartily,
from a sense of obligation, hugged, slapped backs, smiled. Who
passed through red brick universities and complained about the
queer theory and feminist critique and upon graduating, never read
a book again, considering their education to be over. Who never once
fell in love but had enough partners to save their parents from getting
worried, nice girls and nice boys they weren't ashamed to be seen in
public with. Who were well aware that good enough is the best you can
hope for and refusing to settle means starving and alone. Who took
drugs sometimes and grew out of it, scared by the comedowns and
chemical imbalances who decided it was safer after all to drink a few
on a Friday night, misbehave within the boundaries of the permissible.
Who were haunted by the void, always, aware that something was missing
that this could never be enough. Who dressed in navy blue mostly, wore
brown shoes after growing out of trainers. Who went away on holidays to
Prague, Croatia, Iceland, and took photographs. Who ate the local cuisine
and spent evenings on the balcony drinking wine. Who had nothing to say
to one another but knew how to fill the silence, who's laughter would set
the teeth on edge.
Isn't this pleasant and rose through the ranks, slowly and methodically
with frustration. Who masturbated in the kitchen quickly and guiltily
then put on radio four. Who had no adequate identity offered to them
no meaningful role to fill, no part to play, no face to set upon their
shoulders and who are not to blame, are victims
chewed up and spat out in the firing line
guts in the mud and writhing
wondering what to do
before death.