78 Loneliness poems

A pack of  young flirts was patrolling the party, They were cultural outsiders, consumed with    ...    what? Their own notion of  beauty as reflected in the shine-more mirror Of  a man's pants? Or nothing But midnight and no one is counting. They were practitioners, they admitted to the barman, Of  psychological materialism, explaining they had read both Sartre and Beauvoir and believed in the cerebellum, The thalamus and the lower brain and that between The lower and the upper parts there must be room for them, Nant [ nothingness ] aside. Indeed, the evening was a spectacular bacchanalia, The girls lugging their blind-drunk partners around the floor. One sitting it out with a volume of The Collected Camus. That one was “imperious” (the word is Beauvoir's) “The club was plunged into almost total darkness, With violinists wandering about ‘Playing soulful Russian music' into the guests' ears.” “‘If only it were possible to tell the truth,' Exclaimed Camus at one point.” There was vodka and champagne, both in quantities Extremely beautiful and nice for getting tight. And dancing Cheek to cheek, between the exchange of  furtive kisses And giggles every time one of  the chaps said, “Don't Leave me, I love you, I'll always love you.” Which they took as irrefutable evidence Of a general greed for human warmth, I.e., for touch, even among the agonized Post-adolescent dreamers who morphed on the dance floor That night into naughty boys, echoing the girls' questions Of   “how shall we live,” “what shall we do,” Words without end, without weight.

I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain — and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.

lunch alone at my desk again headphones in something to watch on my phone this is fine actually i don't have to share the chips

saturday morning and the city belongs to people with plans i have a list and a coffee and no one expecting me anywhere i like it i do mostly

Alone again which is fine which is what it is which is fine

I have a work friend who is only a work friend which is fine but sometimes i wonder if we'd be friends outside then i don't wonder because it's easier not to

Corner booth for one at a restaurant that seats two hundred i have a book i'm not reading it i'm watching people who came with people

The echo is the worst part every step, every cup set down the house repeats you back to yourself i've started walking softer