Sad urban creatures

These sad urban creatures
sucking on a pipe of dawn
Their lives and mine
sworn to loyalty
To calculated tickings

These sad urban creatures
don't have the time to
notice their hairs blanching
white
dust
white
dust

These sad urban creatures
In monochromatic mood swings
They read myths of heroes
spun for glamor's sake
spun for profit's sake
and they driiiiiiink it all in

These sad urban creatures
who have their lives
manufactured for them
Their leisure timetabled
for us (?)

These sad urban creatures
They make my tongue
turn blue
and I watch
how
new ones are grown
shielded from
true growth

Weeding out
the weeds
Easier to do
when they are young

'Be free!'
but only to an extent
'Be brave!'
but only if you're secure
'Be proud!'
but not of being different

These sad urban creatures
take photos of themselves
and smile
to hide
what they don't understand
the most:
themselves.

There was a woman who had come to our weekly art therapy group. She had just come out of hospital. She was that depressed.

'Long-term abusive relationship.' What does that even mean? You see the impact it has had on her. A face full of creases. Don't mistake them for smiling lines because creases like these don't come from smiling.

For a while I sat there, glancing shy little parakeet glances her way.

She was concentrating on her drawing. Her whole body leaning so intently onto the paper, like she wanted to disappear into it.

Everyone else finished and waited for her pencils to stop their frantic scribbling.

We went around in a circle. Exhibiting. Occasionally explaining.

She lifted her page up for everyone to see. A glow of colours swung their way into the room. I gasped. The paper was aswirl with golden pinks, shining oranges and washes of sunlight. The shapes were round and full. Two figures, embracing each other, their faces a picture of Leunig's bliss.

'This is my son.'
Her voice cracked.
'I just saw him on the weekend.'
A shuddering intake of breath.
'I wish I didn't have to leave.'

I broke inside.

And she hid the paper from sight.

If ever there was a house that was held together by books, it would be Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby's house. The walls are endless factory lines of words.

Just as books find their strength in their tightly strapped shoulders, the walls find their strength in their tightly stacked ribs.

Asked if they had read all of the books, they exclaimed, 'Heavens, no! It would take lifetimes!'

Still, if you had ever wanted to live in a library, Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby had realised that particular dream.

The books spoke of aging. Their covers faded or yellowed with sun spots. Much of this is reflected in the old couple's faces.

Blotches.
Hair fading white.
Eyes fading white.
Fingers of sunspots.
Like sun for paper, like age for people.

We had come to visit their son. A man who had acquired the HIV virus by way of clockwork intravenous drug use. He was known to the local hospital's mental health ward.

He invited us in.

A face, so gaunt. Was it from the drug-induced-happiness?

'I'm sorry I wasn't very friendly to you the last time we met.'

The vacant gaze.

'I was very depressed.'

Slight tremors of lips.
Slight tremors of fingers.
Stillness of the eyes.

His hands moved up towards his neck. 'I promise I won't try to hurt myself anymore.'

His body quickly regained its memory. At this gesture, his face blanched and the hands rapidly descended, back to their harmless nest on knees nervously clasped together.

There is the rustling of movement from the next room. Mr. Willoughby was playing chess with an invisible opponent. Mrs. Willoughby deftly manipulated a pair of knitting needles.

They grow just a little bit older with each breath. The threads of their precious books unwind just a little bit more each year. Their son struggles to stay in place for just that little bit longer each day.