Here I am, suffering from myself
My mind a ticker tape: tap, tap,
Stops start and stops stop
Fizzling with strips and strips of dots
I’ll stretch long over the galaxy
And understand it all
Then roll into sleep,
Marked in sheets and sheets
How many times have we ascended this hill
Noting the position of swans, the level of the pond’s lap
on wet grass, the straw hats of tourists like slow revolving UFOs.
Bags crammed with paper, we seek some kind of knowledge,
or just direction or companionship or whatever,
I don’t know. This is the first paradox.
This is the canon of the judges. Hammer by hammer,
each fact weighed, developing rules, rules,
we try to peel them back, to see what light existed
in the minds of the ages – treat your neighbour as yourself,
use your land so as not to harm another’s, and do not
deceive those who are rely on you. It is despicable.
Truths: People believe in property because
they need to feel they belong. They make promises
because of fear and rely on people who say pretty things
because nothing hurts like hunger in the heart.
Here is a pen, a paper, make your prayer.
Do you need a lawyer?
In the yellow glow of books, I study the day’s facts,
Extract the rules of being me. A dog knows it’s a dog.
A cat must feel like a cat. But I have no conception of myself.
I sieve the day’s words into the effective and the not.
Was I brief, concise, thoughtful and clear?
I just want to know for sure that I can be heard.
Across the script of my books, I trace circles
waiting desperately to see if the ends will meet
so that there will be no ending, only completeness.
These catchments are little worlds – yours, mine, his, hers.
I want to make them integrate but no matter what I do
The words are only fragments, they cannot form wholes
In the deep fissures a tide of blood,
Seizures of colour in canvassed eye,
These are the dreams I bring to life
Even the sky of this city is glass
I shine in shards, glitter cracks under my feet
These are the dreams of the world in which I lived
I bang doors, topple drawers, rooms fill with paper
My mind is ABC soup, I despair at the scatter
These are the dreams that I created
Rain falls, black coal on leaves,
The circle of bark crackles, the shouts of trees
These are the dreams from which I ought to awaken
Skin lines blur into watery mud-brown,
Crown of wave and blanket of trough
These are the dreams I keep drifting down
In the city across the river there is a reflection of me
Stringing together words and other pretty things
These are the dreams of my soul deep and free
Spider web of sweat on my pillowcase
Yesterday’s self peeling from my paper-thin skin
These are the dreams from which I cannot awaken
Every memory a fire, river burns with blood weight
Angel wings tinged with Monet’s pink, sky breaking bread
These are the dreams which are already gone away