Unbearable Seconds of Sunday


My darkest twin

Writhing within

Uncomfortable and fat

Feeding gloriously

Off the sweetest despair


By frustration

Being stuck here

Unable to make the slightest decision to change


Even scream

For help

In tones audible

To someone

Who may be listening

Or not





And gnarled


Changing blood

Red to black

Black enough to drown

Even the smallest spark

Of intent

That’s not what I meant

To write




The lion roars

My blanket of memories

Stretches back

To Rastafarian times


Governed by

Red green gold

And a surety of knowledge

Soon smashed

This blanket drags me back




Cold seeps in

Encompasses my soul

In icy grim

Frozen in space

Time stills

I crave the comforting heat

Which will not come




One last poem

Before I prematurely chop this day to bits

Each verse carefully severed

From the others

Shoved in plastic

Tied with string

Dumped out on the kerb

For all the world to read

If they could only peer

Bother to see

The rubbish

Swallowing me





Copyright June 2013