by Jonathan Butcher
Those all too sweet morsels from the back of the fridge
and the cupboards that stand bare and dust free. The cold
tiled floor that clings to the bare soles of my feet like burning
So easy to blinker my eyes completely, like a myth believer
confronting an atom. The half pill and vodka serve well,
offering a lift just high enough to offer me a birds eye view,
but without the burden of vertigo.
Those mornings, when even the trees stood bare with pride,
and the sun mocked with the knowing of my indolence till
noon. I would fall back into bed, satisfied in the illogical fear
Only later would I venture outside, the drivers and shop keepers
I encounter all seem perpetually exhausted. However, I was
excluded, boredom was a luxury I was unwilling to auction off
at any price.
Returning to my travels, I would gloat to any ear willing to listen;
no stress had passed through this body, no strain of headache
on my forehead. And again I would collapse, once again beaten
by this game.