The Corridor

I love you and I need you, I wish that I could see you.  I’m travelling down this corridor alone, strapped to this trolley with doctors by my side pushing through door after door.  I can see the light shining but I’m not sure if it’s for me or if it’s for everyone around me.  I cry out, not pain not in horror, I cry out in confusion.  I need you and I want you, to be by my side again.  Memories flood my frazzled mind, a skeletal hand clasps my own and tells me it will be alright, it will be okay.  I can help but feel that this is a denial, that my body is failing even as I flail in the half-light of an under-funded hospital, staffed by sleep walking staff with the warmest of hearts.

I need you and I want you, I can hear voices in the corridor, not my own or those around me but others, crying out in equal pain or in anger at the wait.  Where are my sons, where are my daughters?  I wanted to say to grow up in peace, to love your family, friends and neighbours as one, to move on or to leave if you need to.  We understand, we want you to be happy, we need you to be with us.  I love and I need you, and I wish that I could see you.

The final corridor, my body is checked in.  Checked once that I am who I say I am, that the arrows painted on my limbs are correct and that my brain is related to my body and my body is related to my name.  I say I am who I am and they take it on board, and I’m made to wait at Heaven’s Gate.  Two blonde angels guide me, make me comfortable on the slip green sheets which matches their sleek outfits.  Only bras and knickers must be under their gowns I think, wondering who they share their bed and younger, supplier bodies with at night.  My own is broken, battered and torn.  A mess of surgical scars, shortened limbs but above average, well we won’t go into that but it is according to a litany of my previous lovers.

I want you and I need you, I wish that I could see you.  I laugh, laugh at the futility of it all.  The drugs, I yearn for the warmth of the morphine, of the wicked sleeping potion to crawl up into my veins and up into my arm and to flood the chest cavity and consciousness itself.  I yearn to sleep with no dreams, where the minute that passes is not a minute but a moment between awake and awake.  My eyes linger on one of the angels, filling in the paperwork in the corner of the room, haloed by broken bodies on stripped back beds.

I need you and I want you, I wish that I could see you.  I’m moving, I’m moving, but I’m not moving, there are no words for this.  Through the first set of doors I am pushed, name confirmed once more.  Am I aware of what is going to happen to me and why it is happening?  Yes, yes I scream still dreaming of the green robed angels in the theatre waiting room.  Just do it, yes the heart always beats fast.  I need you and I want you, but I just can’t seem to see you.  I stare at the anaethetist’s eyes as the plunger is gently but firmly pressed down, a milky white liquid seeps into my own bloodstream diluting reality.

I needed you and I wanted you, but I just can’t seem to have seen you.  I wake as if I have been asleep for years.  I crave water, yearn to drink a thousand litres of the freshest water available.  I want to drown in crystalline lakes and to never wake.  A tube has been down my throat, a mainline into the neck is still present.  I wish that I could have seen you, I’m sorry to have left you.  I close my eyes again.

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A Silver Skylark

My limbs are heavy and my head is hanging low.  I’m smoking the last cigarette I have and on the last piece of paper I own I have wrote down my last will and testament.  The money in the bank can be given to charity, I ain’t got no family no more.  Give out my belongings to the homeless and give the food to the hungry.

Do what I couldn’t in life, spare me the embarrassment of riches in death.  Do what you have to do.

Neither Here Nor There

It is funny how people ebb and flow, from here to there, over the course of their lives and our life.  How strong the pull and attraction of the home town can be, how daunting and listless a new land can seem.  How making that initial journey into pastures can take years, but walking in the same old tired footsteps can seem vital and necessary.

Some things never change.  Some things never stay the same.  Some things never are.  Some things will always be.

26 and Out, Over.

26 and out,

over.

Hello?

Yes, receiving!

Hello there! Look, it’s happened!

Yes, over.

Oh, nothing much.  Will you sustain coverage?

No, that all? Hold your bile.  Over.

Yes, okay.  Any thing for lunch?

Sandwich.  Okay, over.

 

An empty transaction, the masses spit on your grave even as your culture fractures under the public eye.  Yes, your skin will crack under the sun and your bodies will shrivel.  Instead the talk will focus on non-existent personalities, screaming inane words until their faces turn blue.  Politics, culture, digital media! Like this, read that. Digest, regurgitate.  Eat Eat Eat. Shit Shit Shit.  Live your life but don’t infringe on others, sit and hold your knife and fork even as others sit and starve, here we are.  This is us and that is them, an open divide.  A smell, putrid and fresh, a boil on this scarred land.  Sailors tied to their posts, a whip cracking at their torsos.  Fresh blood broiling over their naked hairy backs, frothing at the slightest glimmer of light.

Join me! he shouts, Join Me! JOIN ME! Have your voices heard, your hand raised, your vote cast!  Tick my number and look at my face.  This is me and you are voting for this!

A shadow disperses, and death marches forward.  The inevitable crunch of extinction, bones snapping underfoot.  Yet this too will be dust.  How inane it all seems.  How selfish it all is.  How frustrated the system of this system is.  Geological time, star dust, the universal contraction of the inevitable birth of a nation will be smeared by the blood of its own first borne.

This is horrific.  This is absurd.  This is the state of no nation, no planet, no universe.  Feel glad to be alive and grab that life and love it.  Hold your brother, your sister, as you hold yourself.  Life is not mutable, there is no eternal transaction, life debt paid heaven ascendant.

Mr Taxi Man, I Don’t Know Your Name

Too fast, too fast down this midnight lane.  He’d tell a story staring straight ahead, dashboard blue lights highlighting half of his wicked face.  Eyes dancing, skittering across the road ahead.  A story of shame and abuse and that high laugh piercing my ears at unexpected moments.  Nerves on edge, orange back lit speedometer bar moving moving moving higher higher higher.  Tighter grip and nerves jangling, shrieks and maniacal laughs.  Talks about lost old men on old lost highways and routeways, police capturing and returning them like lost wild animals, misbehaving and barn razing.  Eyes glazed, the midnight road eggs us on to yonder, to our certain doom.

His laugh is the cruelest joke though, coming as it does in random fits and giggles.  Just when I think he is on the verge of admitting shock or horror at inhumane treatment he unleashes it, a cattle prod designed to keep me awake and alert at all times.

His face, tear stained pitted with bitter rain, a figure of discontent, a rum swansong of a love long lost.  My bitter state sealed with an awful fate, mangled car crashed ruined city, last stop a black ambulance, body bag deals a silent fate.