A Beautiful Morning
And doesn’t it just frustrate the sensibilities when you gaze upon a scene so beautiful it makes you cry.
In a world full of shit.
Like when the rain gently falls, and the sky lets the white rays peer through, and the resultant rays refract through the droplets hurtling in windscreens and asphalt like a million tiny kaleidoscopic disco balls.
Isn’t it ironic that that windscreen is an ambulance, and the police are here, and an unjust assault has just taken place, and a life may just have been ruined.
Does that make it any more or less beautiful? Just frustrating.
Like a rainbow over a field of shit and corpses.
Is the rainbow any less beautiful?
The putrid carnage any less confronting?
It’s like the universe handing you a bouquet of flowers after you’ve just been stabbed.
Fuck you, universe.
Notes
I wrote this poem while I was waiting at a bus stop at king’s cross station. It was one of those beautiful mornings where the rain, temperature, smell was kinda just perfect. Petrichor was peaking. There was someone nearby lying down, it seemed he either got run over or assaulted, and I just found it frustrating, odd, confusing, strange.