on
those pale mornings
when
my remnant dreams
still
cling as shrouds
to
another me
in
some other world
and
the cold grey sun
s –
e – e – p – s
little
shards of heaven
to
prick my sleepless eyes
I’m
as tired as an old joke
told
in a funeral parlour
I
feel like a dirty burlap sack
full
of ossuary bones
I’m
the prolapsed organ
they
dare not resuscitate
and
quite symptomatic
of a
broader demographic
of
disenchanted and careless
mercenary
vagabonds
I
could be zombie king
if
I so desired
complete
with
chocolate
toolbox
the
amnesia haze
and
four flat tires
so
give me the reds
give
me the blues
give
me the yellows
and
the white ones too
patch
me to that big linear zero
and
fill my cranium with soup
we’ll
have no thought here
no
cognitive assemblage
is
necessary
I
sense the world
through
my arsehole
and
its diarrhoea burn
I’ve
left no imprint
on
the world of men
I’m
a trail of breadcrumbs
a
chalk mark on the pavement
one
good rain
could
wash me away
I had expectations
slender ones
faint and penny-plain
tuppence worth, please
I'm counting costs
for my rainy days
I might never work again
my mechanism is worn
with repetitious strain
and I stand here waiting
for a bus in the sodding rain
while the blunt edge of depression
carves me slowly once again
the wind tugs at memory
in indistinct murmurs
of the wilder country
of forbidden places
and ancient curses
I learned what it feels like
to become a beast
my face is fluid now
it can take many forms
angels and demons
dance across my surfaces
twinkling like children
in orphanage rags
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