Sick Day
Secular with the vernacular
and plump my tongue
of one singing existence,
is the peel of onion skin;
my knife spindled on fluorescence
and the feel of chicken pimpled plastic.
The operation is here;
diced clacks of tonsils,
a brace of mustard gas,
a kiss of dusted wires,
incisions licked and a maggot fire.
The walloped lump of apple throat,
and thorned conker chat of autumn’s delirium
is a scratch on my will to speak;
those swirls of concrete smoke
staring down from my ceiling.
Outside there is life
in the slam of car doors and in the run of
children; a wet thatch of mud and school books
and I long for an education;
some solidification of these choirs
of words clogging up my bedspread.
My lips press into the pillow,
whispers cobweb the jaw –
abhorrent soliloquies of a trash
artist - and head whipped,
I lie stupefied and dream of images
that do not fill a space.
I am a jealous being
of anything now
that is not me – the dress that
hangs from the wardrobe; that dangling
blue nymph, liquid and cool;
or the laughter of someone
downstairs, making tea. To stand,
I would amuse – a knock knee’d
idiotic lamb girl - and in the precision
would bite my lip which already
is so bitter, so torn. No, it is much better
to roll the fool in between
those white discs of nothing –
a lawn of blotting paper
burnt to a gunpowder dab
of sleep – and then sleep
and sleep and sleep.
Ray Miller
Wed 24th Oct 2012 16:30
Yeah, a great read. I wouldn't pretend to join all the dots but
the feel of chicken pimpled plastic
will stay with me. Let's hope it's not infectious.