That plodding, sinking feeling.
The winding down.
The pang in the side

The hum and an squeeling.
Like the television
Has been left on.

Oh- my derailed mind.
The orange pips.
The pits of my sunken eyes.

Squeezed shut,
From pain on pain.
Rub and rub.

You can’t run or rub away.
The rabble of my mind.
The troup and troubles.

Clanging, shop doors ringing.
Knocking and kicking.


Could I possibly,
sleep this off?
Could I rest from this unrest.

Arrest myself, into bed.
For the rest-
of tonight declined.

Reclined and inclined
to unwind the knot.
The knock knock… of my mind.

Help me.
Let me out.
So I might be free on the page.

But this spilt ink.
Tasteless, gutless, worthless.
Unplugged, spraying gushing.

“diarrhoea” “diarrhea”
I don’t know I am lost.
I want a rest. Longer than a day.
Sooner than a week.

Drown me in a bath of curry.
Laugh as you do it.
Shoot the book.
Fire the hot poker to my porkified skin.
Add salt to the wound.
Infect me no more, temples torn.
Blood ooze from my skull.
The my cranium be donate.
Cast though the window of some museum.
Displayed for but a short time,
A night and the morning of a day.

Let me be discovered by Mathilde Lester.
Curator of here and or there.
Let me put my shoes on.

I should be elsewhere.
Let her visage crack.
Podium! Please.
Mount me on the wall.
Subconsious. Friend of mine.
Smile, write the plaque.
Make it ironic.
Gold or silver, I care not for the font.


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