Being back in England (Take 1)

I’d like to tell you what it’s been like

Being back in England

And leaving Mexico

But I don’t know where to start

Should I

Start with getting off the plane

And being surprised at

How unfreaked out I was?

At how everything seemed

Normal, natural

In stark contrast

To when I came back two years ago?

Mellow, in fact

Nice

No chaos at all

Just people wandering around

Moving their bodies hither and thither

In a quiet, pleasant manner

In shiny cars that

Didn’t have dents in them

Nor bumpers hanging off

Along roads and pavements

Smooth and well kept

Past fields full of grass and

Trees

Green and luscious and splendid

Start there? Or start with

The increasing feeling of

Boredom and blargh

The already knowing that

I want more than anything I can imagine

In this fair isle

The impossibility of a vision

Of living somewhere English

Doing the English thing

Of routine

Of money

Of earning

Of -

Concrete

That’s what I think of

When I think of England

Not just that so much of it

Has been concreted over

But that that’s what it feels like

The life

The people

It’s a very solid place

No mad extremes

Like America

It’s a great place for grounding

No spinning off into weird deserts

No getting lost in

Strange trains of thought

And last time I came back

I needed that

The grounding

But this time…

It don’t feel so necessary

I’m not so spun out

I haven’t gone quite as weird

As I have in the past

And –

Or maybe I could begin

By saying how my eyes have gone bad again

The eyes that went bad

Two years ago, upon my return

And were cured after not too long

In Mexico

How they’ve returned

To blur

To not being able to focus

And that’s sad

And makes me think

I’d better not stay here long

I could begin with

Any of those things

I guess I have

Or maybe also London

Of hanging with a good bud there

And having what felt like

The first real conversations

I’ve had in a long time

Start with the annoyance of being able

To understand all the passing conversations

Of others

One of my joys at being

Overseas

Surrounded by different tongues

(Yeah, yeah -

You have those ears that just

Blot it out

You don’t even notice it

But my ears

Do

They rush to everything

They gather it up

And scoop it in

And to be in a room

With several conversations

With music playing

When ears are darting about

Picking out strangers’ words

Picking out

Which drum the drummer’s hitting

Which -

Well, I’ve laboured that point

Defensively) -

I can’t be bothered with this

I’m sitting on a train

Heading to Norwich

To see a woman

I always refer to as

“An old school friend”

But, truth is

She’s more than that

Someone I was deeply in love with

When I was 14

When I was 16

And even again

At 26

“Deeply in love with” though?

Is that really true?

Or did I just want to kiss her?

To get in her?

Which I sort of did

At 26

And sort of did again

At 37

(First time, went down on her

Second time, lots of kissing

And fingers,

If you must know)

And now I’m thinking -

Now that she’s newly single again -

It’s probably about time

We boned

About time

I put my cock in her

And we moved about

Got sweaty

Did the sex thing

And then it’d be done

And I’d have chalked

One more thing off the list

Which is a terrible way to put it

When perhaps someone’s feelings are involved

But that’s a bit how I feel

And maybe feelings aren’t involved

Anyway

Maybe she feels just the same

Fancies a bit of it

Fancies a bit of it with me

And…

Why not?

So perhaps I should just

Work out how I’m feeling after that

‘Cos right now what I’m feeling

Is the impossibility of

Me and England

And the lure of a plane ticket

To somewhere

Warm

Somewhere

Where it doesn’t rain

Somewhere

Cheap

And interesting

And non-concrete

And alive

For England is…

Moments like standing in Balham Sainsbury’s

And wondering how the faces would compare

To Cabo Wal-Mart

To Americans in Cabo Wal-Mart

Their weird fear and

Empty-headed stupidity

And -

Yes, I do see something different in England

In Balham I saw…

People lined up

Sort of like

Prisoners

Prisoners who had been inside so long

They’d had all the fight knocked out of them

Now they just shuffled along

In lines

Resigned to their fate

An animal still inside

But barely there

On the conveyor belt

Cogs in a machine

But that’s London

Elsewhere is different

In Yorkshire…

The people are ugly

Hideous

And suddenly I realise why

Mexican girls didn’t look at me

‘Cos

Even though I may be

Good looking in Yorkshire

That’s a bit like being

Five-foot-nine in China

We are such a weird-looking nation

Faces so different

So individualistic

Which is another thing that struck me

When I got off the plane

How different all the clothes were

How individual

The expression of style

Which I didn’t really notice

In Mexico

And maybe that’s another reason why

They don’t seem to feel

So alienated

Safety in sameness

Not rocking the boat

Not venturing out too far

Not making themselves

Alone

Whereas…

We love to be different

To stand out

To be individual

And to express that individuality

And yet…

We’re mad

Or are we?

And are they?

And why am I talking about this

Anyway?

Fuggit!

I can’t be arsed

To try and put into words

What it’s like

To be here

To have let go of

The magic of the Mexican desert -

Was it magic?

Or was it just a guy

Standing in the middle of nowhere

Dragging a suitcase around

Not really doing much?

(Maybe that’s why I like being

Overseas

‘Cos the mundane feels like magic

And here it feels like

Real life

And I don’t much like real life -

Which of course relates to

That feeling of

Not liking to be connected

To looking around at the people

And disliking what I see

And realising I’m kind of the same

Whereas in Mexico

I don’t really feel that

I’m not connected to it

In the same way

So it doesn’t remind me of anything

Doesn’t reflect on me

And if I don’t like it -

Assuming that I even notice it -

I see it as “other”)

So…

This is all just a sketch, isn’t it?

Obviously can never be shared

Put out there

Maybe I can make it into something better

And talk, too

About how I kind of miss San Miguel

And then get confused

‘Cos it was there that I first thought about

Leaving

Or flying to China

And went

When…

I had enough muns-muns

For a good two months there

And how I miss also

The feeling of inspiration

Of wanting to write

Where now all I want to do

Is click on Facebook

Click on youtube

Click on metabunk

Click on internet scrabble

Write daft things to

Daft flat earthers

Get into

Conspiracy theory nut job world

And write nothing

Even though I’ve the means

And the place

And the time

Which is pretty annoying

And pretty indicative

Of what I’m really like

And that doesn’t make me feel good

To see that

Over and over again

So I just wish I had my headphones

So I could watch a movie or something

Even one I’ve seen before

‘Cos everything I’m typing is just bollocks

And probably it doesn’t matter ‘cos

I’ll no doubt be feeling happy and good

When I get to see Luan

So writing this here

And putting myself in a glum mood

Probably isn’t the most productive thing

(The most productive thing

Would probably be to have a nap

And get refreshed a little

After yet another sillily late night

And early morning

In my Yeadon

Dosspit)

Ach!