Flashing frames of vintage film reels
flickering mental images flit-flit hitting retinas with memory segments accumulated from years of flailing, self-flagellating behaviours. Hitting one's self with word nails, steel sharp vowels reneging rapidly on promises, retracting and withdrawing ideals stamping out any sense of belonging, sabotaging any potential back into the wardrobe where no one can see you. Switch on the projector. Rustling film crawls through sharp mechanisms mechanically extracted memories flushed out of bones. Break open and siphon out the marrow. There is always tomorrow. Tomorrow.
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Thankyou time, withdrawing all sensibility
blinking once or twice each flicker a week spending fleeting slivers engrossed in depleted freak shows, speaking meekly of intentions to overthrow inertia like some laden-down snagged camel dragging the corpse of a deposed master by the ankles. Anvils attached to each leg, arm and one around the neck Don't be upset by that vision, it isn't real. Instead reflect upon the times when you crushed the steel burdensome weights like cotton-candy snakes, coiled at first around sinew and stringy tendons, thrown off like confetti, abandoned and sniffed at like some sorry imagined magnet mangled bracelet abandoned on the boiling substrate. Stuff this stupid feeling of going backwards. Lean forwards, push your weight full force supine into the manacle, feel the pressing choke of the yolk yanking at your enfeebled vertebrae. Yell tall obscenities until this blasted thing begins to drag dumb angel shapes in the scorched earth. I'm sick of this figure-of-eight state of play, praying for the day when the same shit retreats from every act preordained by some ghostly male progenitor, a pale general with no horse to ride to war on. Running sideways with one arm tucked behind his back hiding crossed fingers that reveal that this whole thing is some massive cosmic error. So lay back and stop worrying. There's no reason to regret neglecting the pursuit of wealth only to find yourself in a place where material things are immaterial. Lie down like a cat and feel the vibration from a trillion tonnes of pointless earth pressing against your body, tearing your atoms into ever smaller particles. It doesn't matter. Laying on the bottom of the well floor
dry dust like flour white dot signifying a higher power high above black tube walls a disc above like an unidentified visitor from another world. So lying there face up waterless tube dropped down into lungless earth rock low as to the centre of magma heart this is a clear metaphor for feeling an eternal distance from normal. Close my eyes and feel a third person who is it? an imposter or saviour? It is me without the burdens, weights and saddles of memory or dreary trauma. I lay here contemplating, feeling numb Is this tube a grave or a rifled gun? Wrestle sage voice, wise kind words spat out,
sitting flat out on the ground surrounded by rats acting on impulses projectile-vomit scraps scraped from compliments uttered by strangers meaning well, dwelling on the other side of the black coin, the dark Queen a deep well of insults going back to time immemorial kind words are molecules in the slick inky depths, memories sink but feelings bubble to the surface still sage voice speaks on lowered notes, noting times when things were better, softly spoken tones making it through the rejection filter. A younger fitter body long dangly legs and blonde locks shocked by the stunned silence sliding in between violent scenes, crying out pointlessly Scenery that was green, grey-tinged with fall-out dust the fall-out from arguments, pitchy shouting voices failing to make a mark on the scars already laid open, barking mad dogs starkly marking territories reach for something liquid to shut out the voices. Come in now !
Gather all come and see! One more time, one more time queue myriad slights of thought like caverns covered in bat droppings upside-down ideas flapping in the blank, banking on some emerging idea to spark a light instead of yet more rank-and-file man-handling insignificant plankton-like top-down decrees empty-headed automatons, aggravated by sights and sounds of even the smallest hint of thought, cue mental break-downs so keep your powder dry to unleash on minion-clowns crowding cretinous caverns all eyes fixed on the mottled underground, all ears tuning into the slightest sounds ...don't give away your position crawl back into the dark calm of submission Smile this end accepting social blending
stalked eyes crabbing sideways around crowds creeping with guile trying not to be noticed hiding in full view chest puffed out deciding whether to run or stay put doubt smothered by pretending dances advance or reject advances hide or run full tilt into walls or the arms of your clown self spy crowds, take flight into darkened recesses push deeper into enveloping arms except these are clawed spiky nasty death embraces where strangers Hide true faces. Dead future lays trails away at snail pace
placed tiles array against dark walls crawling Glazed porcelain bays bathed in blood slaughtered Yet amazed by resilient defiant eyes face emblazoned with web mask hiding not dead yet, emaciated Retraced steps reverse into reverberating halls no pain in the room Only lonely space Awaiting rescue In a never time and place Sick waves wash through abdominal halls
floods carry carrion scars embarking on long walks in parks treading orange leaves rotting in sighing dark Pull coat collar high, hug face with faux fur warmth only in some parts, others cold emotions stir, mistakes glaring haunted gaze stupid things said and done, betrayed regretful stinging wind whispering sorry gusts reset start again, enough is enough. |
by Paul Sinclair
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November 2020
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