JOS BITUMEN ARCHIVE WINDOW
As Jos began to develop his poetic style, his adolescence past, he slipped into a particularly melancholic phase that saw him rhyming everything with black or at best grey.
My balls have dropped and my voice falls away
and I’m expected to hit another sack
my disgust has heightened to a level I cannot say
though my innocence cannot take me back
to when my days were filled with experiences, gay
and people lay around me like bric-a-brac
The future is out there in uncertainty and disarray
and my selfhood is still so convoluted, alack
that I will not know which me I’ll display
to other folks who’ll give me little slack
like those at school who shouted hooray
when I fell, lost like a needle in a haystack
Who will save me from mortal attack
and, I need to ask, how much will I pay?
The last two lines are particularly poignant for Jos as he is also developing a hopelessness and paranoia that would haunt him right up to the point when he got his first car. Though he was still pondering over the vagaries of love and parentheses to play with contradiction and preconception.
Poses are red, (gets red a bad press)
violence is blue (seeing through sad spectacles)
hypocrisy is yellow, (may they slip on the banana skin of truth)
hope is mostly black (black frames beauty too)
And so, who? (Am I, just so?)
In the dark, holding your gentle ampersand in mine
wondering just how we would syntax
in how long a sentence
and could we ever be cesura?
You laid down ground rules and we measured our love
how long is it now, since the tape rewound
and we knew we were opposite sizes of the coinage,
too much change meant we were loose and one
became each other-wise.