Pages

14 August 2020

Zombie King


 it calls for an extra dose

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 


No comments:

Post a Comment