Days of Beauty, Strange Days
I move from place to place,
collect stories, meet new people,
take in the landscapes—
I don’t stay long in a single job,
I don’t anchor myself in one field—
I end my relationships after
two to three months,
don’t give women enough time
to fall in love with me
or truly know me,
its cruel to do that—
I’m weary of weeping faces.
At the new warehouse
I work in a freezing environment
with three other coworkers
on such a mind-numbingly
boring post
that it’s made a talker out of me.
We face each other
while breaking boxes
for nine and a half hours
everyday,
dressed in high visibility
jackets, skull caps,
face masks, scarfs—
the only thing visible
from our facial features,
our tired eyes.
We kill the time
by talking about anything
and everything
while slowly going deaf
by the loud machinery all around us.
Nihal, on my right
is a 22 year old Algerian
already married with
three kids, he says.
You really stepped your foot in it,
I tell him.
He shakes his head regretfully.
Apparently, his 19 year old wife
wants three more kids.
It’s stifling, he says,
I don’t make nearly enough money.
I don’t know what to do.
On my left, Neil, a fat boy
from Liverpool
breaks the boxes with his elbows.
Don’t you just wish
you paid more attention
at school, I ask him.
He says he has a better job waiting for him
in September,
a job at a call centre.
Somehow, sitting all day in front of a computer
taking abuse from raging customers
sounds better to him.
I imagine him getting fatter and fatter
in a cubicle
leaning dead over his desk
at the age of 34
because of his oversized heart
attacking him
and lying there for hours and hours
until his irritated boss approaches his body
and gives it a shove
and asks just what the hell
is he thinking going to sleep
on the job.
Opposite me, stands Steven
a 58 year old Scotsman,
all skinny and feeble and kind
and more energetic than the rest
half his age.
An ex junkie,
my favourite person in the warehouse.
“Been on the Junk since I was thirteen,
me, pal, had to move to Ireland to get clean.”
I ask him if he got clean on his own.
Aye, he says, all by me-self.
Now, I just take Valium
from time to time
to take the edge off.
I nod. Valium is a hell of a tablet.
A very tasty poison.
At the bottom of each
cardboard box,
bold capital letters in red
read:
WAYS YOU CAN USE THIS BOX:
- MAKE AN IMAGINARY RACE CAR
- MAKE AN INTRICATE CASTLE FOR YOUR PET
- PUT IN ALL YOUR OLD CHARGERS
- GIVE IT NEW LIFE BY RECYCLING IT
I take a black marker and write
over the red words.
I have to entertain myself, somehow.
WAYS TO USE THIS BOX:
- STORE COCAINE IN IT
- SUFFOCATE A CAT
- USE IT AS TINDER TO START A FOREST FIRE
- FILL IT WITH KILLER BEES AND LEAVE IT ON A DOORSTEP
I put the box on the conveyor belt
and watch it travel through the warehouse.
After work I frequent
a beat down pub
in an ominous alley
you wouldn’t go through
even if it saved you a lot of time.
The men there are dark-faced,
their women mean-looking,
all their hearts filled to the brim
with hatred,
it’s a foolish affair to hate,
yet they’re consumed by it.
I study them. I see the old me
shoulder to shoulder with them.
I drink two or three beers
and call it a day,
proud that I can drink
not to get drunk,
proud I can take the world in sober.
Glad to not be leaning
heavy against anyone,
glad to be able to help people
I care about, finally.
I wish to be kind
but I’m afraid
of being kind
towards the wrong person.
On the ride home
I smirk at my rear view mirror.
The wind is in my hair
and the smell of spring
is a fine smell indeed
and although there are many burned bridges
in my past
I make plans for my future
too hopeful to even write about
lest I jinx them.
In these days of solitude,
in these days of beauty,
I am used to being
a stranger amongst strangers —
I am my own home now
and when I go to bed
I don’t toss and turn
I slip right into
oblivion.
Horror Sleaze Trash 
Good stuff.
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