Kristen de Kline #82 - Pariah Friday

wish I could say it was a poetical device I invented
Lawless Road     where dead men drop their hollow bones
retrieve their lives    down a third pint from the sun
a quick Google reveals    Lawless Road exists     dangerously
close     to where the relegated office is assigned     blocked
behind a pre-fabricated building on the Industrial Estate     shimmering

the Former People hang out at Lawless Road
quickly being erased    scrubbed out    like those kid's drawings with black crayon
over rainbows      scratched out with a knife     let the colours shine through
never thought it'd be this fucked up he'd sink this low
the Former People exchange tales of exclusion     rattle white trash music
at MAX VOL     from stolen cars with windows down and bonnets up
delicately hanging off thin wire threads like needles     knitting

first it was the coffee     no more double shots at Jack's café     carry a thermos at all times
then the polite request      how bureaucrats thrive on etiquette regimes
'limit my presence'     breathe in and in and in    slice myself thinly    
sign and initialise contracts on a concrete slab on a circular driveway
where weighty flags refuse to
fly     birds slap their wings, hard against mirrored walls     drop
to their deaths     sign, date     searching
keenly     for signs of Alfred Hitchcock posing as a janitor or a yardsman:
he used to bring me roses, I wish he would again

queue up with other Former People     surrender my Passport 

     stars like little fish

          flounder on the pages
before they
fall off the radar:
undetectable     stars fish bodies

Pariah Friday     all sorts of fucked up things get even more fucked up
share a dart with Former People on Lawless Road     their bones as hollow as mine  
something lodged, stuck     half-way up their arms     killing time
up at the spare paddock in the Industrial Estate at Lawless
or is     time killing me     doing my head in

you didn't think it'd get any more fucked up didn't think he'd sink this low
Manager's number beeps, vibrates in the palm of my hand     kick while they're down
I could crush it     the phone that is     she sticks to the point: what a glorious day it is I advise you to conduct your meetings outside in the sun you really should make the most of the weather what a glorious day it is

consultations carried out    under a random tree     seminars delivered     on a suitable patch of grass  
do I look like a cow

Former People     we try to look Professional  Normal  Regular     but they sniff us out   floundering on the grass path     remembering games and daisy chains and laughs   killing time on allocated patches of grass     under amethyst skies     outside in the darkened suns     fucked up     all-time low   something makes me laugh     out loud
the last laugh of the laughter punctures the phone line  
what a fucked up day
there's nothing more to say