Poo Corner – Issue 30

RAINING TONES

Rain, falling steadily, like moral and ethical standards in politics and society, adds a dismal greyness in a black and white world wherein Jack is a dull boy having stolen the boots of a contingent, familiar enemy; both of who suffered in their industrious net.

THE UNKNOWING DENIZEN

Knee-deep in wood shavings

he dreams of football heroics

Bedsheet-deep in shame

he, as yet, doesn’t understand

he dreams in chocolate:

ignorant and failing to imagine

his life melting away

under a relentless sunshine.

He never ran fast enough

to catch up with the world

and its new-found mechanisation

and its technological fitness regime

Surrounded by play-figures

now strewn about, broken

forming the narrative

of his defeat of success

Spitting cotton-wool out of his eyes

and ears, he can now see

the decay having heard nothing

of the grinding and rotting

he has grown to endure

the humiliating contradiction

of his eating to live tightlipped

unspeaking until spoken to

He’s learned how to read

how to cry, how to touch

and how to be untouched

and how he is young

when he should be old

and old when he should be  young

and dead when, to all outward appearances,

he should be alive

However shoddy the tools

however poor the materials

he can be proud

of producing, fashioning nothing

of value before, during and after

the fall,

often referred to as

his fate of birth.

NO JOKER ALLOWED

I suppose these are your cards on the table

and it means you are gone as I see them clearly

you always held them close to your heart

so you might let me proximally close

though holding all the aces you never bragged

and, to the last, you maintained a poker face

belying your suffering

now, realising your absence

I do not want to destroy the deep sorrow

with a puny apology that drips

from my lips like poison

Death destroyed a brotherhood

more completely than I was capable:

your permanent disappearance accuses

this brother of neglectful selfishness:

mea culpa.

My self-absorption caused me

to stop breathing when suffocated

by your genius

Now, inhaling too easily

the fresh air of aloneness

choking on memories

when I spurned chances to tell

you of the depth of my admiration.

WAKE UP! IT’S A BEAUTIFUL MORNING (LARKIN ABOUT)

I can tolerate the tedium of so-called productivity,

I can even take the tiresome twittering of technology enhanced shopping shit

but it’s waiting to die I find grips me with real anxiety.

What will appear to others as my death from unadventure, when the bullet finally reaches my brain, like the cliched Russian roulette, after a loosely termed lifelong struggle began when playing with an idea of myself I touched the trigger of ignorance whilst smoking a gun, and setting in motion a dismal, drawn out trajectory of demise, running counter to the original, natural movement called living.

Who, especially me, could know just how long it would take to die? Even though the degrading orbit was plotted and to some degree measured at a very early age.

Though, then, I didn’t even know I’d killed myself. In fact, I didn’t even know myself to kill, and certainly cculdn’t imagine the possibility that I’d committed existential suicide and effectively quashed any authentic rebellion.

At one point, I thought I’d learned to act; a dramatic dialogue between me and myself, but quickly realised there was no-one watching.

I, learning from a grown-up, practiced dying but misunderstood by wanting to witness my absence, missing the point of absolute oblivion.

Instead, I enacted a tragedy of self-destructive egoism: killing me slowly with history: two subjects at which I’ve less than excelled.

Yet, ignorance at least bestows a talent for killing, at least oneself, however clumsily, however unskilled and ugly a process.

Instead of the courage of living, I, being a coward, chose dying, by gradations of humiliation called days; abacus indulgence that made sure I was isolated, so that the more I learned of me, the greater the distance from life, in a slow re-enactment of birth, and the day to day absurd acts of eating as if intending to live.

Though the greatest thing is a morning and a dusk sky can give me such a concrete fillip..

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