Sandwich Artist
The tomato had been so finely chopped that the pieces became see through.
Conceited by the illusory. The have and the have nots fought over the chance to take a selfie infront of a poster that hung on the wall.
The sandwich technician stood behind the counter, pitying them. Smelling the garlic on his breath from last night’s dinner, his fingertips stained yellow from tobacco. He cursed the poets that had preceded him, they had simply failed him. Being enlisted by a dead beat to read at his open mic only so he could remain an alias, a mystery. His words had been a temporary comfort, but he thought to himself, the poet had been overly concerned by the condition of the squares in the audience. It was never them it was only ever us. He thought it was never me, only you. Only to recognise you in terms of me. The rude amongst us demanded their bread to be toasted, they pointed with over assertiveness. They ignored the technician to play on their phones. Spoke the derogatory, the critical, the pejorative. They paid over the top for the status. They dropped their locations online, tagged friends, ex-lovers, barista’s that he once knew. They cry, laugh, scream, dance, and jump around in front of a camera they hold in their pocket. Just to reassure themselves of an existence that is fleeting away. They snivel at those who seemingly don’t understand their values. Whether they understand their own remains to be known.
He made a fresh sandwich for himself later that day, thinking to himself; for those who didn’t choose a vocation by the age of 15. They faced a conundrum, that was conceivably theirs and theirs alone, yet one in the same with each other. We struggled for jobs; we were sold phony ambition. We had been mistreated by those who reassured the little influence they had. The availability was lacking, even if we met the sparce opportunities with good intentions. We were then told to go have fun in communities that would later turn. A snap in the wooden beam that supported the ceiling. Commodities grew, we pastured, we polluted and pollinated. The checkout operator was made redundant. The upcoming generations below us had their social skills robbed by those very people who advertised skills to them.
So, what, right? Half-full.
A man sits alone in his house on a hill, swirls coffee in his recyclable cup and chuckles as he reads this. An urban farmer washes his hair with beetroot juices. Maureen, who used to work the check-out gives her granddaughter her last £5 of the month.
I think this Is the premise. That through all struggle, remains a cosmic dance. The dance floor remains. The dancer. No difference to an overly complicated canvas. No difference between the painting and the painter. The was only ever the intention and the gesture. Accompanied with the present.
Song lyrics without the music, the DJ without the crowd. The empty art gallery lacks the perceived concept of feeling. The perceived meaning then changes. Do you notice this from afar?
The mind acts independently of the whole composition.
18.27 