The disc of vitamin fizzes to a halt
as a wipe of fog across the window
reveals a layer of crunchy snow
the news will obsess on all week long.
For all the hyperbolic national hysteria
and recurring tales of colleague commutes
the deepening season reminds you
you’re a tiny flake in a ginormous world.
As the penguin shuffles march on
the divorce bill twists and turns
form like a cold, white puff of breath
and this rock called Earth spins on.
In June life will feel so contained
in regenerated fields of excess
but for now it’s a stark and vast
plain of the chilled and sparse.
The togetherness of a morning shop
filling a bag of apples and juice
begins each daily tale of routines
that are over like a daydream.
Already Christmas seems far away,
the detox seems so far, far away
and that we’re almost three twelfths
through, daunts like an exam dream.
You’ve had all year to read the text.
This date’s been in the diary forever.
Everything amounts to this moment.
You’ve fucked it. Now wake up.
There can surely be no greater sign
that life’s telling you to push on
than an imagined assembly hall clock
ticking its way to your failed grades.
Crawling through the marching orders,
grocery shopping and research lists
read like two taught, middle fingers
wagging dismay into your chest.
It was no good giving it all that
detox, new beginnings, big goals,
different attitude, new day spill
now we’re sat back here smashed.
A count of the days left till March,
manic mail order of new books
and drop off at the charity shop
helps you feel it will all be alright.
The days aren’t passing slowly
but there are still a hundred to be had,
to hold tightly by the throat
and drain of every last breath.
From the cluster of scribbles DISPATCH19