When I was lying amongst them –
the tubs of biochemical
waste – I had a thought, on the floor
there, under the bright yellow tubs
I cried later, the self-service
checkout beeped and I cried weakly
Julian of Norwich touched me
on the shoulder. She hugged me and
I cried at the gap. The quiet
where visions should have poured outward
was a small cracked rock in the dark.
The Wu tang Clan sung me back with
C.R.E.A.M. as my selfhood rebooted.
My heartbeat was slow, I was born
again, from a song I can’t know.
I thought: what has happened? I know
nothing anymore, just this face
and the other, staring back down
as I lay on the smooth cold floor.
The lady passed by, I sat up
and stood up, slowly. I wandered
from here to there, bought frozen food
and went to the checkout. She had
hollow eyes and she hugged me close
Posted on November 3, 2019 November 26, 2020 by
Poems - Existential, Poems - Occasional, Poems - Surreal?, Syllabics Tagged
bumped head, earworms, faint, injection, nothingness, privatisation, quiet, restart, tiredness, unconsciousness, vaccine, weakness
It’s too late, I’m too tired
there are too many small senses
crowded into the bed with the big
beige allover tiredness –
Let me sleep, let me not write
the aches in my arms tonight.
Only warm up the bed till a)
I can finally relax and b)
The bus is late
Condensated windows drip
onto raincoats, yawns, mornings.
Alongside, a giant spider crawls
It takes a sodden leg
and taps the misted glass next to me
dunk, dunk, dunk
Pensioners get caught inadvertently
in its slowly trailing web
then go back to sleep.
Branches scrape the bus
like dull whistles
Posted on January 30, 2018 May 11, 2022 by
Poems - Existential Tagged
blankness, bus, chant, grey skies, lateness, mantra, mornings, not a morning person, poem, poems, poetry, sleep, spider, time, tiredness
Coffee, dark in the dark morning
soothing my throat of sleep’s work
in the shadows of the cold room.
My enjoyment sleepily ceased,
of this waking dream, I sit aching
from yesterdays forgotten exertions.
Birds, flowing in their sky-patterns
using air as their darkness, they live
in the shadows of the breeze.
One lands on a gutter and slips
into a drainpipe, scraping the walls –
impacts the dark stone and rots.
It struggles to leave, constrained –
eyes at the perfect level for worms –
it cries shortly, immobile, waiting.
Speculations on how to be freed
from this dispersing life, aided
to spark once again, in the night.