Friday 1 January 2016

MY OWN PRIVATE OVERHANG



the 
last minute screaming angel eyes 
of 
yesterdays accelerated glory
are 
now small cold pools 
without depth 
struggling to continue 
spooling your movie
and
 with a canceling hand 
i review my schedule
 - refining the escape plan
as 
(quietly) 
my own soul is the cold white sink 
and 
daylight pink 
touches last night’s stains
no opinions survive
 the tight rigid sleeping 
in the small night 
of my 
twisting dribbling plight
eyes both cheated and guilty
- overheated with self pity -
seeing in Technicolor sight

and 
i was riding a plastic horse 
of course 
- under a slick amber dome
as 
the sudden shouting freedom 
bled on 
in a strange place 
outside my home
and 
i was wailing too 
in the dark of the night 
sailing calorie high
and 
the loud spitting whispers 
close up 
in specific ears 
mean i do try
and 
i was fractured 
but 
i showed it mattered 
by tidying 
before hiding
and 
i would be grateful now
 - not hateful now 
nor 
spiteful now – 
if i would be anything

and 
i was the blind drunk 
leading 
the blind drunk 
all around the houses
now 
i am up before noon 
wearing 
yesterday stained trousers
and 
i’m teetering 
on this edge of rebirth 
under fleeting skies
and 
i’m wavering woefully 
and 
wondering why i don’t die
and 
now 
these last morning minutes mercilessly mock me 
without enthusiasm
as I wonder 
- post amber cataclysm -
‘do i still qualify as organism?’

and 
i am reborn 
disgusting 
from the brief darkness 
that spits up radical thinking
and 
i am 
shriveled and shrinking 
away from last night’s 
wild conception of drinking 
and 
now my dry thick trembling thumbs
- fumbling as one -
rolling the needed nicotine stick
see flames too bright 
and 
parched twigs too tight 
- still i force down smoke 
for the chemical hit
and 
i am a pale shadow 
empty of light 
like a cobweb 
hanging 
in a forgotten breeze
reaching for any bubble packet 
- not coping - 
hoping 
that the chemist’s racket 
can help me leave

and 
now my stomach 
is a sad low pile 
in foul need 
to squeeze out 
nicotine brown sick
and 
my white knees come to see me 
- see through me - 
as the fugitive suddenly exits
and
 i’m 
The Ghost of Evening Past 
drifting damaged here 
- with fluid floating guts
and 
i know this
won’t be 
and 
can’t be 
the only load 
to show me 
how my insides suck
and 
i fix my testcard eyes 
on the door
waiting 
for what they saw 
in the epic evening past
to surface slowly taunting 
- like visions unholy haunting - 
taking my attention 
off my arse

and 
habit tempts you 
with some artificial placenta 
to chew on
at once 
lumpy and empty 
- the grumpy kitchen zombie is you son!
and 
an emotion free zone prevails
 - preoccupied with the cold vacuum
head mercury boiling! 
- bubble packet nurse 
helpless and consumed
and 
tracers 
like drug angel’s 
frolic out of sync 
behind the bright edges 
- so ill
leaving insane craving for soft suds 
- fizzy present 
to hug my insides still
 and 
from loving all around me 
in the warm 
late night storm
to loving nothing 
around me 
at all 
after the dawn
and 
deep in 
The Heart of Drunkness 
i ran before the sun
i had to be finished 
and 
i made sure i was done
and 
i am reminded constantly 
of the Nazis 
that are after me
by the 
bold black writing 
that lurks 
like old slack typing 
smudged across me

alas 
grow you must 
and 
go you will 
from 
The Heart of Drunkness
stumble away from this sick land 
of old beasts 
that you know best
ignore this bloody rebirth 
- leave 
without 
ACTUALLY looking
keep denial in style 
and 
let your car crash legs 
do the walking
but
- the kitchen is a painting 
honest and expensive 
on the hospital walls
and 
the world’s a two-dimensional mirage 
of endless shoes
 in lurid front halls!

and 
outside 
a sadists movie 
is lurching 
from a hidden lens
and 
my acting 
is intangible now 
despite the evidence
and 
the first fake lightness 
of strange escape 
is passing away now 
rancid proof 
of a 
dirty fall near now 
- feeling thirty fear now 
and 
you are still teased 
by the 
blue light insight 
you hunted 
for all last night
the ghost touch 
of evening past 
carries high 
the host torch 
of jagged hindsight 

and 
all my angry tolerance 
is held like 
madness 
in one glance
brought on 
by healthy straight fools 
around me 
that 
can 
jabber 
and 
prance
and 
the booze splashed hurricane 
that tore me 
from my novocain
was to others 
straight lined 
just one more evening 
much the same
and 
- nobody loves me 
and 
everybody hates me 
so 
i’m going upstairs to wear shades 
where the phantom guilt 
under the clammy quilt 
is billing
me now 
for fictitious debts 
unpaid

and 
still 
the shattered reminders 
are 
creeping 
through the haze
the 
torture 
and the relief 
will strobe me 
deep 
all through this day
and 
i'm a slimy man 
calling out 
‘hello’ 
again 
- to my 
Own Private Overhang
and 
if it answered me 
- in a trance i would be - 
not saying anything
and 
i am dried up 
and 
useless like an old fridge 
grey on waste ground
waiting for the miracle touch 
of Morpheus’s 
brief 
and 
careless hand

and 
why do i do it?  
because of the 
‘modern’ 
world in my face
a classic reaction 
- the search for distraction - 
a textbook case!
and 
in this state 
i cannot be hurried 
nor can 
i be stopped
as 
i shuffle at a constant pace 
- suspiciously watched
and 
when i’m free from the tunnels 
and 
the screaming train faces
home 
at last 
and like 
GOD 
i collapse 
- in horrible stasis

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