San Francisco.

the fog creeps in, filling low-lying gaps in the hills with wispy white mist.

I sit on top of my roof and watch as the pale, bony fingers of the fog

reach towards me, imploring me, beckoning.

it engulfs all:

scattered clusters of houses,

rusted bicycles chained to parking meters,

coughing infants,

bums huddled in flannel rags,

ragged dogs sniffing the air,

Mexicans standing beside old cars drinking tall cans of beer,

all reduced to a single white sheet of nothing.

A hushed lull settles on the valley

and the noises of modernity –

a woman screams in a horror movie through an open window,

the booming bass of a big black ambling pickup,

a police siren

rises and falls

rises and falls,

and another police siren, somewhere closer, chimes in

and it

rises and falls,

and they are playing a pervasive symphony of panic

– all these, are muffled to a fine simple silence.

still, life persists in its damp innards.

shawls are pulled tightly around shivering shoulders,

tears roll down rosy cheeks.

occasionally children’s shrieks rise from the unknown,

like bubbling brooks in dense forests.

And maybe that’s what life is, I think –

I hate being like this,

in tune, they say, with your own thoughts,

but the tune is stale and the notes are flat

and the beat is too fucking repetitive.

but I think, maybe that’s what life is,

a bustle of silent movement

enshrouded in the sombre reality

that nothing matters.

from a distance,

to a man sitting on a roof somewhere,

it’s all just a





Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s