overhead, the ceiling
holds no constellations
i'm reaching out
to move the stars
but there can be no poetry, my mind
is filled with cotton wool
and dust
with eyes closed
to the blackness, i
conjure a vast new horizon
all silken skies
and glittering sand
and on colder nights
those rainy ruins, dense
with emerald green
an endless marble bowl
or, sometimes
the distant flame
of an offshore oil rig,
staring across the grey sea
a watching eye
less frequent, still,
are the dreams in which i'm flying
the tips of my toes
skim clouds
and buildings
and i hold my breath
and wait
for invisible wings
and imaginary heroes
on the outskirts
hiding
bunkered down,
in a salty house
with bay windows
the sea-spray
has worn it almost into driftwood;
the glass panes
may as well be grains of sand
there are too many
our elbows
and knees
knock against each other,
as warring ships
in a haphazard navy
we are running out of air.
my rage
touches every corner of the room
a wave
furious, and wild
and black through to the depths
it cracks a window -
it, not i;
pushes open the driftwood door,
and washes me out
bedraggled, and soaked
to my brittle bones
i stand by the shore
and let the storm roll seaward.
here i am again
ill, reduced
to a statistic -
the textbook-example figure
of a living host for disease
and much less, in reality
a swilling bucket
of pills
and concoctions
my stomach, a black hole
or a whirlpool
each spot, each speck of dust
each tiny insect
absorbed into my skin
(the itch
is indescribable)
the fever
transforms me into a fireplace,
or a boiling pot
emitting
noxious steam
my teeth grind
to hills
of white dust
a heaving chest, and a heart
a dancing mess
my hair sticks to my forehead
like a tree taking root
and i am less than dirt,
and certainly fit for this
call a doctor -
i am lonely,
and left
to my own devices
with surgical precision
(there is going to be an accident)
i am judas on my days off;
i only break
my own promises
a replacement
a second chance
second best
i will never hurt you
the way he did
(i have my own methods)
i would sooner set myself
on fire
a beacon
but not an idol
to throw the world
into harsh light
i am a martyr
a sacrifice to a godless universe
a leader
of silent crowds
born again, the disciple
of no faith
i will appeal
to the black masses -
not a guiding light, but ghost fire
over an endless stretch
of sand
and water
mud, mud,
i am blacke
and i -
a living specimen
neither man nor woman
an anomaly
preserved
in a glass case
and a constant state of nervousness
stepping
on eggshells hidden
in my cotton wool,
surgically sterilized environment
my own personal hell -
a cage,
with newsprint pillows
the stars in my night sky
light the anxious eyes
of onlookers
two tickets,
three,
four,
five
i am a sideshow attraction
bound into a recognisable shape
and almost close enough to feel real
(almost)
i hope
that it is longing
that i see
in the face of the night sky
or loneliness -
so far away, those millions of light years
without bridges
or telephones
and if the astronauts
with their wings of science and rivalry
might feel the same way
and look back down from heaven
past the billowing cloud curtains
and the soft shimmer of reflected light
and up,
up,
up,
with their tinfoil suits and tinted windows,
and the insomniac eyes
of the monitors
drifting, weightless,
in a vast sea of stars and debris
and the bones
of monkeys
and maybe feel
a little lonely?