At the edge of my awareness – the wound
just under the water – the she-monster
while
attempting
to
do
the
dishes
it
stings
popping up, bubbling over, fizziness
oh fuck
ugly head
push it down
spin round
five steps to the right
five to the left
so
where am I now?
pick up the pen:
I never understood the loveless way of
building slab
concrete fab
where little crooked feet forget their dance
but out of love, still tried
soul cried
big tantrum as in
big expansion
then
blink
to find
my freedom
gone
?
but the hospital was ok
there were friends, and things were clear again
we knew who we were
and the doctors and nurses, who we were against
but returning to the suburbs
was harder in a different way
because there you could not measure the loss
of the trees
and now, they say you are free!
to do as you please
(advance, compete)
possibly
learn to drive?
rigorous workout regime?
but of course
still couldn’t fit
tried a million fake songs
and salves
to forget or forgive
also sedated, underresourced, so couldn’t make head or tale of things
words, flame, magic
always remained somehow
even if
neglected
even if
those crooked feet went lame.
to say I’m an artist means
I don’t know any other way
sore at times, tired, terrified of being confined again, and then realising that
this fear itself is actually
my confinement
I need to take a step, to dance
forward
trust my senses and heart to
sometimes my words are weeks ahead of me
today
I just want softness
the wound is a secret nobody should touch.
but I want to be held.