I remain blind E-Book

Robert Grant

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 66

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

'I remain...blind' is Grant's fourth book. It discusses this strange place we all find our self, in a reality that we don't fully understand, wrestling with our other halves...that never truthfully existed in the first place. "From billions of different realities, 'I remain blind' is a glimpse into mine. For I see a different world to you. Those dark damp corners you can't except, are where I dwell. I'm the guy in the bar watching you, that bum at the train station, an exhausted father on a crowded playground, that drunk guy from the wedding...you remember him? Now let me show you, what you don't see."

Leseprobe

Contents

Those days

Packaged

In Light

Stencils

Intoxicating

Way

Wine lolly Pop

Mouse

Inbred

Cat

bum rush

Damp

Beast

Not a Word

Fighting the cold

A Strong Wind

worth

Hard truth

Splendora

Spiders

Never times three

This Part

Statement

THE Ruby WRITER

Morning After

Pages long

Broke by wife

Hot?

In my bar

Drip

Troop

Swelter

The Rambling Man (redux)

Tumble

Rock

Star

The Pole

Forced

Notes on a music Video

Dinosaur

Jesus and the Unicorn

See you, at Six

He

He left

Japanese backside

It's a question of Marriage

Swollen

Non Tao A-ha

Answers

@GeorgiewithaG

If I do

Time for a little chaos

Dancers

Dog fight

Tomorrow, different

More-ductive

Dark

Coffee house Beats

The 13:31 from somewhere

About Bob

bottle of piss

Fuck you right back

Late...home

Brush

3 Haiku

Old Lady

Cranes

Mama

Brian

Now...Lady

3 for 1

Warm inside, Cold out

Before the interview

Jim

Tangled

Life staged

Here lies James Watson

That dirty old beast

Slowly...clear

she only sees him

Here she came

3 thoughts

brave man

Maddening

life is

Sunshine Skating

Shaggy, old

I remain...blind.

I'll smile

Once again we trudge

She

Her

Tongue

Old man

? Mark

Then and then to here

Rotisserie, Pig

1988

The Woodpecker Paradox

Meat

Childish

A place that doesn't move

"They'll end up doing the same thing baby... we'll do something different" Conversation with Ruby, Berlin 2021

As a younger man and for many

years, I thought I'd made it.

Was guru...the master.

Put my films and words in front of

herds of people, tending results.

As an older man,

I saw the truth of things.

That if I really had made it,

people would seek me out

not the other way around.

Clarified moments

amidst an industry of lies,

showed me how to be humble.

For dreamt success is facile,

it's the journey...that holds pride.

Those Days

Of warm days like these.

When summer dressed women float

on bikes through parks. As ripped

sporty types parade in sand traps,

glistening with volleyballs.

Of stoners sitting, chatting, giggling.

When families play throwing games

with hoops made of string. Clowns,

juggling whilst precariously walking

across lengths of rope with spring.

Of these days when everything seems

normal. Yet, families have to check

the floor for broken bottles before laying

out rugs. When dog shit is scraped from

athletes feet onto vandalised benches.

Of Police wailing whistles, breaking up

drunk teens holding immature beers.

When no one is really as happy as they

are now portraying. Whilst Mummy takes

a phone call...just too important to ignore.

Of couples eyeing other peoples lovers.

Photos of genitals floating through

social media offices, giving weekend

workers laughs in stuffy boxes on the

other side of the world.

Of days like these I fear for our future,

when this is what we consider as fun. All

sitting around in parks pretending to enjoy

each other's company, while really only

considering, what others look like naked.

Packaged

On similar holidays. Drinking and eating

fried things, watching the same terrible

hotel cabaret, hoping tonight will be

better than nights previous.

Watching children play basketball with

hotel mascots, dressed as cuddly tigers

in thirty degree heat...remembering

shitty jobs you did whilst in youth.

Looking down, to see an ant crawl across

this book of empty stories. Swallowing,

as I squash it with a cheap plastic flip flop,

hoping someone may do the same for me.

Some other me, with an even larger ego,

cracking me on the head. As this holiday

seams to repeat last year's calamari, with

the same hangovers and worse cabaret.

In light

We are the things we hold so dear,

the muffled things we cry.

Of limbo nights, after crazy days

with friends that bicker and fight.

We are a beautiful rhyming thing

a retrospectively ending strain.

Cast into a world that is unknown

and will never be seen the same.

Spend our time living up to a standard,

waved on by a gloomy foe.

Ending all and this, with smile,

sweet bliss...white tag upon your toe.

Stencils

What is to come of us now?

When life has given you enough

and all that's left is decay.

No more childish dreams, only

the reality and broken fantasies

that I have weaved so neatly

into this web of satisfaction

harbouring self depravation.

I have, everything a man could

consider that he might ever want.

Amidst illusions, tall tales and

moments of truthful friendship.

Have witnessed creation,

laughed at unfunny jokes,

recited poetry to strangers

in drunken bars. Shouted, when

shouting seams rested in silence.

This place I now find myself, seams

glad of my presence. Willing me to

entertain self confessed chess champions

looking for psychologists. Irruptions made

of fluff and other states of personality.

Whilst smiling and ordering shots with no

money in my pocket, only plastic to do

these pinpricked nights of addiction.

So there's only one thing left to come for

me now. The last eternal silence stretching

to the ends of nowhere, in no time at all.

Arching bent backs to straighten, in this

place known to me from a millennia

before my conception and will thusly

extend before me as if valid or real. I am

the memories you will read about now.

Of this game we all play and as that bell is

rung in our ears as we see the world a

very dark space, of which to fall into. We

must conceive that we are no more than

a tiny thing...no more than something so

inconsequential that we will simply tip

into infinity, holding our hands before us

to break the fall that isn't even happening.

These patterns are but parts of us, as we

are part of them. Cutting out stencils, to be

repeated of coming conversation in future

drinking holes, when men that look and act

exactly like me, will say that same things to

other humans, who look like you or your

mother. Their shadow confirming that

something feels familiar about all this.

So what is to come of me now is pointless,

as pointless as you reading this and coming

up with conclusions that have already been

made for you by me and others likewise.

You can only grow your fern, repeat the

pattern, for you are the only reason to see

things in any other way than what has

already been before, over time, over now.

Therefore you should sell the world, sell

your soul, trade everything into a better

version of the things you don't need or see.

Eon upon millennia, fighting within an

atom, handed to you for comprehension.

We are finite, we are dirt, we are pollen,

gliding to an outcome that is thankfully

unseen, muted by swollen lips.

Trust in yourself to know nothing as you

glide through chaos, confusing compassion

with greed. For, when that day comes and

you're left to discover the answer to life's

only question. Sitting with pounding

hammers, silenced skies never seen upon

conversations never had, you'll feel how

pointless questions really seam.

Slipping into a new world, same one as

before your conception, in those eons

you don't remember, in the place that no

one ever dreams. We are the glint in the

eyes of history, as we dance our childish

parade. If you can hold your hands up and