2 schizophrenic poems
By Harri Green
McDonald’s
I walk into McDonald's and it's busy,
very, very busy.
The smell immediately hits me - it is how l imagine the great land in the sky to smell once you gain entry through the pearly gates.
I am not here to buy food though, I am here to use the toilet.
On my way back down the stairs I pass an employee carrying a tray full of food: chips, burgers, nuggets, everything.
The look and the smell, the unattainability - my first thought is to grab a handful of chips.
She won't care.
You can walk briskly away without making eye contact and then just never go in there again,
even though it is the most convenient store to me. It won't make the news.
No one will see you do it so no one will have their phones out ready to capture your crime.
But I don't, I just walk by and back outside, back to sit on the benches outside KFC to wait for Holly.
To face another smell.
Villon
For Francois Villon & you know who you are.
Lexus - I love - gold and angular.
It made me feel nostalgic for a time and a place l'd never been.
I was walking that old hill again, running actually, smiling actually, sun shining in my eyes, smiling despite the fact knowing half the battle is lost just by waking.
So yeah, I have learned to ward off my impulsivity - especially as the one so unyielding can take everything i need away But I'm on the bum.
I have no job.
I wake and take a shower, then head off out to sell something or post flyers all day.
I'm not earning enough money to pay the bills I keep getting text reminders about, though; the money earnt is just enough to eat on, and not eat properly at that - it's 'extra value' cans of beans, packets of rice, tinned vegetables (the cheapest money can buy), and sometimes if I feel like I've earnt it. I treat my myself to a chickpea salad.
I used to like rainy dark days and ashen skies before I was in my current predicament; now when I wake to see the sun rays coming through the dusty blinds, of the room I owe the landlady £400 for.
I feel something like happiness, sometimes you'd see a little grin if you happened to be there in my room with me. I'm not complaining mind you.
Sometimes I revel when I hear the kitchen lights come on at 7am next door; the people brushing their teeth and choking; the engines outside and the tyres going over the grit -
I am glad to be out of that game, I am glad to get out of bed at 10/11 o'clock.
I know those people are suffering.
I don't enjoy knowing I owe the landlady £400, though, and both my bank accounts being overdrawn, the loan payments getting declined, my phone bill being left unpaid with threats of being cut off, not being able to afford shampoo or conditioner or any of the other basic necessities.
I am looking for work and will get their money soon, and when they do I hope they're happy, because I know I'll be.
Harri Green is a writer and visual artist living in the small city of Portsmouth, England. At 29, he’s working in a discount tile warehouse while continuing his affairs with amateur shoplifting, loving Pedro Juan Gutierrez and Billie Holiday. Green remains a steadily published author at The Burning Palace. He wants to die.
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Omg only wanna read poetry like the first . Love knowing where the fuck I am