Saturday, 2 July 2011

Revised edition of new poem


The broken skin on my knuckles is something you always notice;

It signals that sour dawn that encloses me in cloud; that vain gas chamber-

The bathroom.

In the beginning, I could hide it,

 My sustainable suicide,

I could flush it and bleach it and wear my bones with pride.

The first time;

It was on a train. Midland’s Mainline would never have suspected,

That as we rushed over the evening tracks,

I began my servitude.

The accent of teeth biting into the tracks was comforting,

As the basin of steel received my meal.

The automatic flush relieved me of the aliment, the ailment.

And I feel so very pleased with myself.

That was the January I signed up.

Three years on

And the bathroom door clicks on its hinges

The plastic porcelain welcomes me with ridicule,

And I try to gag silently,

But your senses are as sharp as the stinging scent of bile

And you know before I do

That I’m at that private game again.

Being attacked by your own mind

Is never easy;

Punctured by self destruction,

I slid into the trenches,

Corrupted and cadaverous,

But thin as a spindle.

I turned on myself with automatic fire.

After the battle,

I adore that emptiness;

My body hollow as the silent hours before birdsong.

I am dizzy with dysfunctionality.

And whilst I was awaiting my orders

 From the sergeant of self hatred.

The day


The morning has shaken awake the feathery bundles of normality

They chiff and chatter;

I have had to grow up;

My vacant organs beseech me to accept

That I am not organically delicate;

And that those two fingers

Cannot get rid of everything.

I have had to surrender and swallow

And face the world of heaviness that knows nothing

Of the enchantment of absence,

Hip bones and rib cage shining in that cruel half light,

The light laced with voices that tell you the truth; You are fat, you are disgusting, you’re pathetic, you’re shit,

You’re stupid, you’re useless, you’re repulsive, you’re dying.

And I decided against it.

It surprised me too.

So now a pacifist, I concede

To be thick and dappled,
9 stone something and apparently ‘I look so much better.’

But there is no cure

For post traumatic stress

And in those silent hours before birdsong

I cry

For my suffocated bones,

Those sunken precious stones


In a sea of flesh.

No comments:

Post a Comment