I don't even have a title today, or the will to finish it properly. Now that I've been indulged with a social life again, I can't keep up with the intense demands I've put on my psyche. But I don't expect anyone else to either, and that's why I'm running for Mayor next season. But also, this is a lie. End monologue.
I start the day sneezing.
There’s nothing like it
to wrench your chest open
and expose your heart
to the cool wind of the morning.
In the milk light
time passes at double urgency.
My mouth makes its way
around various seed compounds
and my pancreas smiles.
I’m getting ready for something big.
We all are. There are songs about it
written inside toilet cubicles,
songs so cryptic that cracking them
would crack the egg at the centre of the earth
and then we’d be sunk, for sure.
But what’s it all about, Alfie?
I don’t know, and this poem
Is proving to be a lot more difficult
to finish that I thought it would be.