After I have a shower
I need a shower So I have another shower And as I'm having the shower I'm thinking Of how I'll die one day And one day everyone I know will also die And their children and then everyone Else will die And the universe will continue on Unless it dies Which is theoretically possible And by possible I mean probable And by probable I mean inevitable But sometime soon I don't know when but sometime soon I'll have to get out of the shower. Because someone else needs it.
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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. 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. No human is a Brexit, entire of itself,
Everyone is a piece of the internet, a part of the Web, If a line of code is lost, washed away by white noise, The global village is the less, as well as if a webpage were, As well as any of thine facebook friends or thine own were, Because I am involved in humanity And therefore never send to know For whom twitter trends It trends for thee. Take my hand, sweet friend,
And come with me To search for Prince’s music On YouTube; We won’t find any, I know, He was very strict About copyright Restrictions But I feel he would’ve been Happy For us to try. Come with me, my child, Let us run now, Let us run through The long grass Of Summer: There are Pokemons To collect Even though I have read That Sex Offenders Are using the game To entrap children. Don’t run away, my love, The song that I sing Will soon be a ringtone As famed as That one from Nokia; All our dreams Are doomed To become Sean Bean themed memes: Mostly variations on “One does not simply Walk into Mordor!” The garden looks at me with ill disguised contempt The grass grows long with disapproval A broken wheelbarrow rusts under the tree Impatient for its own (never-going-to-happen) removal. The flowerbeds look sick with hate The daffodils nod in mute condemnation The potted plants and vegetable patch Are demanding an immediate explanation. The cat quietly tells me I’m a twat. A tiny ocean crashes
Beneath the short sky On a minuscule island, a flake, Battered by fiddly weather, Close to the compact continent, All spread over The crumb of the world, a mote, Caught in the stifling closeness Of a tight solar system, Twisting in a narrow galaxy, A low ceiling-ed infinity: A tiny universe A tiny tiny universe A speck. |
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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