Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Despair is a thing with claws
scratching across an asbestos roof;
It is the unspittable grind between molars-
root cackling against gum
a sandpaper chewed to death
(Take deep breaths? PAH!)
Despair is the screams painted on gritty sockets,
Deafeningly silent - turning into a sweaty insomnia-
onion tears over a non-stick pan, fish-stained.
The incessant drone of World Cup commentary-
all in a loop, I want to smash something-
your head, for instance.
Instead I make endless therapeutic omelettes,
the ‘woman’s’ magazine insists:
go revamp your wardrobe, you’ll feel better
The-ra-peu-tic – a black cloth rips inside my jaw.
or I could secretly make neat, non-threatening gnashes-
and prattle away – until the voices gnaw into my nails.
a blankness filled with ‘whys’,
vast, convenient and hidden inside a SHUT UP.
Old crones crawl over my forehead
they turn to splintered singings
ear-splitting; pieces running off-
Into places inside me
(I didn’t know existed)
stalactiting in my stomach.
My despair is a decaying verse-
a drowned caterpillar, unpupated,
ants’ breakfast. How fast the flesh disappears!
The sickening irony sews into a smirk-
Where is that thing with feathers?
Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s Hope is a Thing with Feathers
Sometimes it is coffee, dark as the residue of unremembered nightmares lingering on the underside of lashes. Sometimes it is insomnia, like dead satellites etched on skin - dead, grey, hollow. Each with its own terrible echo. Sometimes it is that carousel that starts up inside the skin, rippling lights, that music which make the skies throw-up and drown, the rasp of untranslatable words. Sometimes it is the penumbra of an unwritten poem, a delirious line that slips away from my desperate hands. I am left with only a redolent quaver on my fingers. Sometimes it is a ghost from the chaotic part of wakefulness; its laughter explodes in my throat. My eyes trace maddening bends on the wall, a white-washed corner stretches up, a light socket becomes a hungry mouth. Sometimes it is a clench in the jaw, the pull in the eyebrow, the chasms growing on my forehead, the chortles of my empty notebooks, the horrifying nothingness of a blank page, the heaviness of these blood whispers.
Image: Google Images