Hospital Dinner, Chores, Awakening: Three Poems From Eighteen Months Ago
A series of poems I wrote and self-published over a year ago that have never been distributed or saved in any other form. They are slowly being moved on to Hive.
Slap-dash and number-eight wire are all I have today.
And they're always looking for a bigger sound.
And I can't keep replacing myself.
Or upgrading myself to open doors with my skin.
The response of the audience is so moving.
Disgust and pity more than outright hatred.
All right. All right. I'll come down. I promise.
The smell of clean sheets and a cold dinner tray.
An array of vents and ducts and sprinklers on the roof.
And whether there's a way out is unsure.
I dwell on a paradox.
My cynicism is accumulating.
I lack the will to go and buy junk food.
The cupboards are full of beans.
I've been to the pharmacy so often recently they know my name.
For Cash and Bataille.
I have let the dishes pile up again.
The clock ticks on past ten to five.
No matter how hard I screw my eyes up,
it won't disappear and nor will they.
I have constructed the pile of my reality
plate by plate. Procrastination is my idol:
I have been down on bent knee
to 'I'll just do it later' since
later was sliced bread.
I ate it with toast and Marmite,
narrowly conscious of society.
How else will I find a sense of quiet?
I know no other way but
a task hanging over my head,
a sword with ink on the tip.
A piece of wood notched with curved lines:
I left one in public for anyone to find.
Do not stop, despite your weariness.
Follow the label to the letter.
For Hulme, Kuper and McQueen.
The word 'suddenly' doesn't begin to describe how quickly it happened.
I jumped. I started. "It's no wonder," she said.
But it was over when it began. A stir at the window.
My heart through my chest. The wind stilled.
Such a moment is beyond the boundaries.
The mirror was the most formidable thing in the room.
Carved edges. Old. But propped up behind my books in piles.
I could barely recognise myself in it.
It took all my strength to keep my eyes off of her,
away from the soft event of her horizon.
It would be easier if I weren't so stoned.
I have within me the spirit of a slain man.
My steps have been haunted from birth.
For O'Sullivan, Frazer and Berne.
First published on my personal Publish0x over a year ago. Republished here to both archive them and bring them back to light.