Like Clockwork

This is a piece of writing that I didn’t have room for in my new upcoming book of poems and prose. It’s definately part of the collection, but it’s living here on my blog. The book is gonna be called My Bohemia and will be hopefully ready by the end of this week, and available at my gigs…

It’s 11.30. A fresh spring morning and I’m walking through the park, making good time as I power past the swings, tearing up the path like an adrenaline scarecrow on a mission. Without warning, a soiled man rears out of the bushes and staggers onto the path directly in front of me. I change course instinctively and cut across the grass.

“Hey mate!” he calls out, but I pass him and don’t look back. He looks like he needs money and I can’t spare any. Not today.

It’s not that I don’t sympathise with beggars; indeed I empathise. I begged myself when I first got here. I didn’t have a guitar and times were hard. Yes, I feel a certain kinship with the feral brotherhood that cling to Liverpool streets. But today, something propels me onwards into my day with scant regard for the privations of others. I got things to do. Never you mind what – just things.

Walking means I’ll save money on the bus fare, but I’ll get to town later. So which is more important, my time or my money?

Tick, tick, tick

I pass the monument on my way out of the park. It’s got a sundial on top. What a noble idea – free time for the masses; for the slaving masses who have no time of their own. Except lunchtimes spent sitting on benches watching pigeons fight over crumbs

Peck, peck, peck

Time should be free. But people carry it around in expensive watches and phones (thief magnet/repository for fear) not knowing its true value.

“THIS IS A NEWSFLASH!! GREENWICH MEANTIME HAS BEEN STOLEN. A SPECIAL REPORT FOLLOWS ON NEWS AT WHEN…”                 

Judging from my TV, ultimate respect in this society is conferred on those with too much money and not enough time. Sir Alan Sugar, for instance, has more money than he knows what to do with, but no time to spare in his workaholic regime.

In contrast, the time-rich homeless are beneath contempt. How dare they claim so much leisure time, sitting idly in doorways, drinking cider in bus shelters, wandering around town centres?

I want to turn the tables on this stale value system. The aquisition of time should form the bedrock of our society, while work addiction should be treated like the scourge it really is. Don’t get me wrong though, what we need is treatment, not condemnation.

I recently moved into a new flat. It’s huge compared to what I’m used to, so I usually just sleep on the living room floor. The bedroom’s remained uncolonised so far, but occasionally I peep around the door and giggle. It’s quite exiting to think what I could get up to in there. Not just the obvious things…it’s where I keep my dreams.

People think it’s waste that I’m paying rent for a room that I don’t use, but they’re underestimating the psycological worth of spare room. To me it’s like a margin for error – I can run in there if I don’t like my life  (it happens occasionally).

I’m heading for the library, where I use the internet. Cyberspace is theoretically infinite, but now the library is closing at 6 instead of 8. The man at the desk said it’s all about money.

Spending money, spending time

Time like money, time like water

Like rain, raining down

Drip, drip, drip

People try to hold on to their money.instead of enjoying it. People try to shore up their time on earth, or at least the appearance of it.                                                                                                           Business ladies, botox detox…

Imagine yourself…just imagine

In a couple of minutes I’ll reach the shop where I’ll buy a pen and write all this down, if I can remember it.

“Hey mate, can you spare ten pence?”

…if time is money…

“Hey mate, can you spare ten minutes?”

…walk past and hope…

“Hey mate, can you spare 10p?”

…to see the girl in the offie…

“Can you spare it for me?”

…she’ll be there this time…

This time, this time, this time

The girl will be there this time

On the afternoon shift I imagine myself as a tramp picking up fallen seconds at a bus stop, fragments from abandoned conversations. I imagine a pigeon on a clock tower, perched on a ledge, asking a sweating businessman “Hey mate, can you spare some time?…it’s just, I’m lonely, see. And I don’t like flying on my own. Come on, let’s do it. Let’s go for a little fly, ok? After three – one, two, three…”