Wednesday, 5 April 2017

National Poetry Writing Month... Day (Part 4)

Over halfway, just after 1pm when I finished poem 19 for #NaPoWriMo 2017... finished poem 24 just after 3.30pm.


19. Saltwater Moon

A drained blood pack
looks like a small massacre,
a red shadow caught inside
sterile plastic,

three-hundred and fifty
millilitres drained out
under only rivulets are left,
a dirty lens on the moon.

The steady drip complete,
we ask the nurse to change
back to the saline, more fluids
to fight hypercalcemia,
hyperkalaemia,
an unknown infection.

We sit, and wait again
for the drain. 



20. Property Mark

After a few days,
you’ll being to wonder who’s living beside you
as the only sounds you hear are between two and four a.m.

After a few weeks,
you’ll figure out the bin collection rota
without having to ask the neighbours.

After a few months,
you’ll barely notice you are under
the main flight path to the airport anymore.

After a few years,
you’ll struggle to remember the layout
of your previous house, blueprints lost
to the malleability of the mind,
where rent prices bring adaptability,
a new street adopted under the name of progress.



21. Restless Drummer

Left hand hi-hat,
index finger for drumstick,
a steady tap mistaken
for fidgeting
against keys or coins,
wanting anything metallic.

Right hand, snare
on some hard surface,
bending fingernail
to plastic or tile
for a better sound,
a piccolo pitch.

Aside this makeshift tabor,
bring the left foot down,
a heel forming sound
or toes as talon,
thrumming carpet
for that deep dull beat.

Now combine.
Bring a middle finger in
for fills, trills and rolls,
your right foot stepping
for the odd double bass line.
Everything’s in rhythm, everything’s fine.



22. Cerumen and Sebum

Mucus
is the formation
of unused thoughts
escaping from the brain,
running downwards in a stream
of abandoned ideas and lost projects.

Whereas earwax must be
all the plots and possibilities
that failed to enter your mind,
the outside world screaming
as its pioneers and vanguards
bemoan the dams of your canals. 



23. Needled

The shower forsakes you
just after you’ve started to foam up,
boiler pressure buckling
under the demands of bars and heads.

The angle required
to point the nozzle to the wall
is urgent, cold cataract
blasts the grouting
as you rush the gel around you,
brushing into dry crevices,
attacking yesterday’s dirt.

Then a deep breath: get pumped
for a thousand tips of icebergs
to needle their way around you,
frazzled spray of chilled knives,
the bite of morning cursing out
as you think about calling the plumber.


24. Cycles

Welcome each new day:
none of us can stop the clock
before hands greet us.

We might as well as
get use to the idea of time,
show the opened palm,

mix morning with night,
throw away our alarms clocks,
bin the early calls.

We are trapped inside
this notion of nine-to-five,
eight hours to make it.

Instead, let me sleep
when the sun is visiting
in the underworld

and I will wake when
the moon has said its goodbyes,
telling me to go rise.

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