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We're in a city taking selfies
Where people murdered for laughs Listening to opera in the ruins of a castle Modestly described as baths We're in a city shopping on streets Where the knuckles of history punch Emperors were stabbed nearby Where we had an over-priced lunch We're in a city crossing streets Where people drive like they're trying to crash And warnings of terrorism overshadow The fact we're running out of cash.
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Day 9, poem 9
everyone's asleep here everyone except me i can hear my family's varied breathing in the shuttered blue walled room the sound of the bottle smashers outside is a lullaby the tarmac melts on the pavements of rome. This is the heat that kills old people birds drop from the sky I have a shower and I need another as I towel myself dry. ‘I’ve never been loved,’ he said. ‘Never.’
The silence didn’t say anything. ‘I don’t just mean I never had a girlfriend. I’ve had sex, sure. But love… nothing. Zip. Zero. Nada. I never felt that look that someone gives, that physical contact, the eyes that shine, that sort of thing. No one loves me. No one has ever loved me.’ The light from the window fell in a flat rectangle on the floor. ‘Your family…’ I offered. ‘Even if…’ I’m not going anywhere Lying like I've been dropped A Stephen King novel Propped on my chest... Imagine the universe ending Very soon Nothing good ever happens In the afternoon Sometimes I wake Like I just got EST Sometimes I done a little dribble It’s all the same And now the evening's Just a morning By a different name. |
AuthorJohn Bleasdale is a writer. His work has appeared in The Guardian, The Independent, Il Manifesto, as well as CineVue.Com and theStudioExec.com. He has also written a number of plays, screenplays and novels. Archives
March 2019
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