Poetry

As seen through a round tank of water

Fill up the glass tanks, wear them on ours heads like giant fish bowls. If we spill any, we lose our worth and have to crawl on the floor with those dressed in rags, furiously mopping up after others and trying to fill our bowls once more.

The rags disintegrate, we are naked and no no-one cares. We are filthy and no one cares. We are hungry and no one cares. We have brains and no one cares. We have no glass tanks and everyone stares.

Poetry

Crepuscular (in response to an interview with Neil Gaiman)

Sometimes, my eyes feel like

swollen pearls

liquefying down my cheeks.

I stumble, blind,

from the doors of famous

enough,

over to the council of too

famous, or famous too.

My voice can fill

but no longer be heard.

I must consider if,

simply,

I am tomorrow’s forgotten things.

 

The interview that inspired this can be found here