September 8, 2007

I am a torn, yellow reed;
broken skin like cloak. I feel
sick; bent with vertigo.

Time was, I moved with pride like mane.
Not now – but I was bright…
vivid lines of stabbing cream,
flooded yellow. Now,
they think I’m over.

I do not want this table.
I want the wind.
I used to dream of swimming, unpicking
threads of root from tangled soil
and walking like a single stilt. I use to hate-

the stillness, touching arms like friends,
but not. I would like I don’t know what.
Something flying. Wriggling, cleaving.

I’m scared of death,
of losing skin – on skin, on skin
till nothing left. I cannot sleep for it.
If I had another limb
I would hold myself in tact.

Once, I set myself against the wind
and made myself a brittle stick
and broke myself. I am not proud.

Once, I let a woman pull me free
and laid myself against her wrist
and on a table.This life is strange.

I have lived for far too long.
I have lived for many months.
My point is hollow. Don’t forget.


The above is another exercise from today. Apparently it’s also a test, used by the secret services, to test whether or not you’re sturdy and sane enough to pass mustard. Hmmm…with that in mind, I thought it perhaps expediant to prepare another (suitable for CIA/MI5) version….

Happy, happy little reed.

I am a long limbed reed.
I feel happy. Once,
I was with the other reeds
and I was happy.
And now I’m not,
but I am happy still.
Happy, happy, little reed.
I don’t want anything.
I am content.
I’m scared of-
I just can’t think.
Perhaps the boots.
Once, I sang a song
with wind inside and it was high
the other’s smiled. Once,
I rocked the other reeds
in mellow sleep, I whistled in
a lullaby. My point
is just to be.
It is enough.


Ready for duty, sar!


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