i was a flower boy once. this is a memory haibun.
i finished school at 16 & wished to educate my sensitivities, so took a part time job on a flower stall in small town Burntwood— nothing place, where everybody knows each other’s name & cars passing through are slowed only by Pedestrianization. i endured the cold enjoyed the warm. the smell of freesia & lilies filled the days of my nose. chrysanthemum & gypsum taught me how to hear & see. lilies & rose taught me death & love. i met my first girlfriend— bat shit crazy (scientific term: bipolar disorder & OCD) a painter who canvased her socially anxious demons, couched in the amygdala, whilst listening to Guns n’ Roses very loud. we took Sunday walks around Chase Water reservoir, but couldn’t chase those demons into the speechless brown of the water— i would mock Axl Rose & she talked about his massive dick & how it was his illness that made him beat Erin Everly: you’ll never understand she explained.
i smoked joints at lunch time with the butcher who sorted my weed out for me each weekend & told me stories about girls & i made histories to make myself more familiar, like how i got with this one girl, right…— lied about my age, i was 18 to everyone.
learned the radiator good of tea— i didn’t know my Milarepa then. became adult with puppy fat. tested the waters of responsibility. took a few quid out the change purse for sandwiches, tea cakes & hot chocolate, when my belly gabbed: i was paid below minimum wage, reasonable justification; & the boss never counted the coppers & silver, i interpreted that as ripe picking.
young, i wanted everything
that was back then, now…
no… i’m not that boy.