You can’t find me. You can try to but you won’t succeed. You might see me on the main streets but I’ll vanish into the crowds. You’ll catch glimpses of me in alleyways but I’ll fade into tenement blocks. Where ever you look I’m not there. I’m never there.
~~~
I’ve pulled back. Retreated. The room is shrouded in darkness, as is my presence here. No one knows I am here. Or maybe they do, me a forgotten memory.
~~~
We don’t know where he’s gone. We know he isn’t dead. We know that much. He still frequents his old haunts but he’s not there. He’s become an empty vessel. It’s like we just see right through him.
~~~
They can’t see me. Not anymore. I dropped out. Then I came back. I see them. Hear them. But I’m not there. They see right through me, a wraith in an ocean of concrete and scaffolds.
~~~
Disappeared, now in solitude. Whereabouts unknown, a spectral visage condemned to anonymity. It feels good.
~~~
They look for me, look everywhere they can. They can’t find me, can’t see me. And they never will.
~~~
I drift from place to another. Unseen. Unheard.
~~~
I vanished. They followed. Or tried to. They never found me. Maybe they never followed. They have forgotten me, or just never cared.
~~~
Inspired by William Burroughs and part of his book, Naked Lunch:
‘Look down at my filthy trousers, haven’t been changed in months . . . The days glide by strung on a syringe with a long thread of blood . . . I am forgetting sex and all sharp pleasures of the body – a grey, junk-bound ghost. The Spanish boys call me El Hombre Invisible – the Invisible Man . . .’
Golden Giraffes Riding Scarlet Flamingos Through The Desert of Forever 