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Damn...
My head exploded. I hate it when that happens. Makes a right mess.
***
WHY THE HELL IS IT MONDAY TOMORROW? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? (multiply by forever)
And now! Poetry from the world of tiredness just for you you you you you!
The Parliament Hill Files (Episode 1)
It's the owl in the Ford Cortina,
He's coming around again.
I can tell from the sound of the engine.
Turn around, shut my eyes, count to ten.
No good, he's outside, the door's open.
I swallow. I look at him. "You..."
He nods. "All right, love? Good to see you."
I grip the door tight. "Yeah, you too."
He sighs, looks away, does that owl thing,
Head twisting right round to the back,
Then he reaches inside the Cortina
And lifts out a black plastic sack.
Says, "Mind if I come inside for a sec?
There's something... well, something I've found."
He stares the way only an owl can:
Unblinking eyes orange and round.
I say, "Sure," stand aside with a gesture.
He steps past me, on into the hall.
His wing touches my wrist, and it's startling.
So strange... I feel weak. I might fall.
We sit with our tea at the table.
He's left his black bag with the boots,
and the coats and umbrellas and golf clubs.
There's a smell that comes off it, of roots
And earthworms and things that go crawling
in darkness and rot and decay.
I sit with my back to the doorway,
I smile at my friend and I say:
"All right, then. What's so bloody urgent
You come around here before night?"
He's tired, I can tell (see, I know him).
He blinks, his eyes heavy with light.
"Remember," he says, "Sunny Jim?"
I nod. "From that pub down in Bow?"
"The same," says my friend with a grimace.
"Jimmy's dead. And now we've got to go."
I laugh, till I see he's in earnest.
"What the fuck do you mean, 'Got to go?'
Go where? Why? God, what are you saying?
What do I care some some cunt's dead in Bow?"
"Life's good now," I tell him. I'm frightened.
I'm sweating, I'm sick and and I'm ill.
You can't plead with an owl, but I try it:
"I've a life here on Parliament Hill!"
His head revolves slowly, it's creepy.
He's creepy, like he was back then.
You always forget, till you see him --
Pretty quick, you remember again.
"Your life," he says, distantly, coldly.
"Did you really think they would forget?
Did you think that they'd leave you alone this time?
That they wouldn't call in the old debt?"
His eyes are red gold and they burn me.
I'm like a mouse under the moon.
Behind me the dead smell is rising,
It chokes me, it fills up the room.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT TIME MY BRAIN EXPLODES YAYZ
***
WHY THE HELL IS IT MONDAY TOMORROW? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? (multiply by forever)
And now! Poetry from the world of tiredness just for you you you you you!
The Parliament Hill Files (Episode 1)
It's the owl in the Ford Cortina,
He's coming around again.
I can tell from the sound of the engine.
Turn around, shut my eyes, count to ten.
No good, he's outside, the door's open.
I swallow. I look at him. "You..."
He nods. "All right, love? Good to see you."
I grip the door tight. "Yeah, you too."
He sighs, looks away, does that owl thing,
Head twisting right round to the back,
Then he reaches inside the Cortina
And lifts out a black plastic sack.
Says, "Mind if I come inside for a sec?
There's something... well, something I've found."
He stares the way only an owl can:
Unblinking eyes orange and round.
I say, "Sure," stand aside with a gesture.
He steps past me, on into the hall.
His wing touches my wrist, and it's startling.
So strange... I feel weak. I might fall.
We sit with our tea at the table.
He's left his black bag with the boots,
and the coats and umbrellas and golf clubs.
There's a smell that comes off it, of roots
And earthworms and things that go crawling
in darkness and rot and decay.
I sit with my back to the doorway,
I smile at my friend and I say:
"All right, then. What's so bloody urgent
You come around here before night?"
He's tired, I can tell (see, I know him).
He blinks, his eyes heavy with light.
"Remember," he says, "Sunny Jim?"
I nod. "From that pub down in Bow?"
"The same," says my friend with a grimace.
"Jimmy's dead. And now we've got to go."
I laugh, till I see he's in earnest.
"What the fuck do you mean, 'Got to go?'
Go where? Why? God, what are you saying?
What do I care some some cunt's dead in Bow?"
"Life's good now," I tell him. I'm frightened.
I'm sweating, I'm sick and and I'm ill.
You can't plead with an owl, but I try it:
"I've a life here on Parliament Hill!"
His head revolves slowly, it's creepy.
He's creepy, like he was back then.
You always forget, till you see him --
Pretty quick, you remember again.
"Your life," he says, distantly, coldly.
"Did you really think they would forget?
Did you think that they'd leave you alone this time?
That they wouldn't call in the old debt?"
His eyes are red gold and they burn me.
I'm like a mouse under the moon.
Behind me the dead smell is rising,
It chokes me, it fills up the room.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT TIME MY BRAIN EXPLODES YAYZ
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You're my favourite.
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I'm managing it, dear B, because my brain is so tired it has gone into the wrong places, where these sorts of owls live. I fear it may never return.
<3
love it............
...........what happens next??!
I won't be able to sleep now!!
:)
Re: :)
I don't!!
Re: :)
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....................and he is holding an alarm clock!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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I'm reading The Historian and I'm having terrible dreams.
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