This is when you think
your best lines will come;
mimetic bat,you soar with the dawn
through layers of blind space
grasping at blood & bugs & blackness
but all that boils is the kettle,
all that smoulders is the cigarette
burning blue in the dirty ashtray,
There is some logic here,if you can follow it,
but your mind,strafed by waking,
pataphysically stalls on the first rung
of the pebble;
self reflectivity,pebble within pebble,
each beach harbours itself an infinity-fold,
cell within cell,endless helical,
no cell sleeps but sleep takes place within them.
The birds have stopped singing.
Lazarus still stands at the lip of his grave,
can see the weighing taking place in his
zombie eyes,
his face pulled down with gravity,with
sadness,
hauled out of that safe sleep
which encapsulates every endlessness;
you can hear him asking with dirt in his throat
which was the better place to leave.
you can see him look longingly at the
mud in his fingernails,
see him caresses the worms in his hair.
It’s all bollocks. It’s all just
nonsense words.7:54. The house
awakes. Come forth,
because there are many
mucky and moneyed things to do today.
.
Niall Griffiths
Picture Nick Victor
.