Monday, 2 March 2015

a minor hell

a kind of frantic busy emptiness
like a terrible mediocre calm in the centre of a storm
a planned sargasso
a garden of small pains
and planned shame
regular failures
a glass cage which no-one ever leaves
a caffeine gaol
three-second cells, repeating eternally like the hexagons of a hive
we are very occupied with our seconds
we are  about to do something
we are  running out of time
we are  waiting and impatient, but we wait for a few seconds more, something is about to happen and then we can act
we are  cutting ourselves and the skin is growing back leaving scars that only we can see
we are  pulling out our hair and chewing it and tying it in knots and our hair grows back in strands of gold
everyone has scabs and is picking at the scabs in the handful of seconds that we have till things repeat
there are signs to help us but the signs have strange grammar
we are  very angry and our patience has run out, we are waiting by the door, we are looking at the time
There are many times here and the times flit and circle like mosquitoes getting closer
We know our time is the right time and that time is running out
everyone knows everybodys business, or think they do
there is no news but there are whispers: third party recriminations, denials, impatient claims
the whispering fills the hive like a river of sand running somewhere out of sight
the cells will never open
outside is the circle of the surrounding storm, to walk there is to be scoured away.
A great many people must be suffering as the storm sweeps endlessly on
at its centre there is silence

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