anxiety · aproprose · birds · death · depression · diary · meditation · prose · sleep · sound

aproprose: gatherings, 2nd March 2017

gatherings.. ahem

turning off the night permitting light ingress
the storm took pity, finally eventually, easing back its throttle choking
on its own reserves and leaving just enough, just enough
<space>
in which I sleep and slept I did between the moment that I fell
asleep to a different moment that I woke and broke the grinding cycle
wake and sleep, wake and sleep, wake and sleep, disoriented by the thoughts
the storm left in its wake, snagged and limp, strung lacklustre hung in scraps
of black ripped plastic torn from months ago these bales of silage deadweight,
motionless, slumped between a stubble not get grown again, undignified
deflated bowls
awaiting for a giant to return and start the game these rotting boulders shift
in only ways geology can mark the pace the waste of time, the loss of faith and
sense of sleight I gather round me double-tog my winter quilt reluctant
to the findings finding me among the shadows crumpled into corners
ill-at-ease and pinned upon the glareness of the days insinuation trapping
them as trophies, butterflies both delicate and deadened, dulled,
as docile, lumpen as the silage wrapped in plastic black and shredded
pillbugs, pill-lice curl themselves around themselves into themselves knowing
when a cause is lost before it might begin leaving others to their festering,
their grieving, to the thrum-di-drum from over there, no
over there,
a woodpecker pecks away at unimagined speeds most of which go unrewarded
a primal urge for love is lost amidst the drone of traffic groaning underneath
the light, the light, the light consuming, smothering the intricate, the detail,
a means towards an end,
here underneath the ground
inside the sewer the clues are all too clear to see
and taste upon a roughened tip of tongue a word that died before it had a chance
to breathe
I’m gathering, gathering, gathering these useless tropes of wonder, plundered,
plastic black, duvets, traffic finings, shadows shy, soundings of a birds amour
and strangle them in gathered folds gripped in whitened fingers acid-etched upon
the smell arising from the street and what breathes underneath.

© robert greig

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