Tuesday, 12 May 2015

We try to live for art yet die in trash

I was sitting sat the edge of the thoroughfare, rather idly, though I can’t say minding my own business. Each second my eye would follow the striking individuality which lay in a strange shade of clothing, a particularly cruel belt buckle, the agitation of veins patterning the surface of a clasped palm.

That day I felt particularly generous, sitting there with the cup at its customary angle to my knees.

Any spare change please, Sir, Lady, spare change; the same old melody, mixing words which seemed insensible – what did the words ‘spare change’ even mine? Why attach the adjective of ‘spare’ to something that is never normally considered as cash? Money is not an assemblage which goes much spare these days, anyone can notice that. Human hearts seem more frequently spare than money is, and I almost wish to claim that as a fact. I can claim a lot, from just having sat on the street with the cup between  my knees. A high-heeled girl clicked past, her feet like precision timers. She had no control in her life otherwise, you could tell by the set of her jaw, it quivered when she walked, yet almost paused when I directed towards her my usual question.

That day I felt particularly generous, sitting there with the cup at its customary angle to my knees.

I didn’t change, but your face did as I asked. I looked up to you.


You didn’t look back.