Poetry

Tired, was he

He went boldly up to the clocks and abacuses

marking out his life

and demanded to know why

they refused to see how burnt out he was.

 

They paused, studying him, and said,

‘We can see. But you didn’t state it before this.

Therefore, it was not our concern.’

 

And so they went back

to laying out his schedule

as if no interruption had occurred.

 

‘Hold up. Are you saying

you’ve seen me struggling for months

to cope with everything

you’ve arranged that I haven’t asked for

because I kept my mouth shut?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

In response to their answer, he pulled

them all down from the dais

and dissembled them

with his bare hands.

 

‘From now on, I mark out

my own life,’ he said,

and left them in a heap

of beads, cogs and springs.

Poetry

Shoulder-hugger

Dot. Stamp. Dot. Stamp.

Tapping lightly,

the marbled paper bleeds. Rivulets

of perspiration; precipitation from the mind.

Tick. Tick. Cross. Tick.

Scathing, scarring acid nails

scrape the skin. That little demon.

Shrug it off. Away, down the river.

Beaten with adrenaline.