I am a scholar of German literature, reduced to stomping the streets of England as a postman for a living. I find inspiration in everything!
A Mug of Tea
The great steel teapot pours its jet of yellow, roiling, boiling water weir-like into a giant’s black-mouthed stoneware bucket. It cascades like steaming piss into a urinal or the bowl of an old outside toilet. Vapour whirls upward and bubbles rise from the deep. When the last drop has fallen, the teapot strikes the streaky beige kitchen table with a dull clang. Now a plastic tanker ejects a stream of milk, a white effluent that dives swiftly into the obscure depths of the bucket and wells upward again. It’s a brackish straw-coloured pond with a fleck of scummy film on the surface and a miasma gently rising. A glinting spoon like a giant’s ladle kicks the mixture into a beige galactic swirl, circling into dark shadow. The brew is ready to drink.
Observe the world around you, the fat mother scolding her child, water running down the street like a river, the shop girls standing bored and clueless, the crocuses broken and bent on the soil. Sadness flows from these sources, flows through your life, dives underground when you are happy but emerges later into the light. The river of sadness drives the great mill where the artists labour.