No doctor tells me
I have but a short time to live
because i haven’t been to see one
for quite some time
shit bubbles
on four channels
which happen
everywhere
through my door the postman slides
moon rocks pounded paper-thin
by a descending sheet of unbearable pressure
into the pages of daily newspapers
the newsagent slips philosophical
conundrums written by a ballerina
with Down’s Syndrome
while i’m here i carve
faces in in the margarine
Lammergreyers out of cheese
and stare at the whirlpools
in the sink
the blizzards
of hair on the diffident walls
To apologise would really not solve anything
least of all the way my mind
hops between status sickness sanity and
hysteria
and things as many as squeaks of pain
coffee hovers, an incipient soma
and in code the newsreaders ask me why
if time is an endless string that can be
reeled in around my wrist,why i
still miss her so hideously much
,
Niall Griffiths
Picture Chris Bill
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