The Poetry Marathon

It was daily occurence and nobody seemed to notice how many times it had happened over the last 20 years. That’s 20 by 365 not accounting for a leap year. Who knew that it would lead to madness. That after 20 years we could find ourselves here, in this crevice, hanging by a thin strand of finely woven nothingness in a place where no man would dare fish around for answers. Why had it come to this? Inevitable calamity. There was no other meaning to be found. Snakes and ants could survive but not us. There were too many variables. Too much sanctity prohibited. Just enough love to shed light on the aspirations darkened by scepticism. Healthy scepticism, lateral scepticism and farnarkling laughter. There was no such thing as parable in innocence. There was always a baddie protesting his or her apple grove. Feathered creatures lay in the mist developing a hatred for slip streams. It had taken too may of their family members. None of them could see any more what a gust of wind was and what was certain death. The birds were wary, watching the ants and snakes from a great height, wondering how many times they would have to screech before the madness would end. Clack Clack Clack. The typing fingertips issued another warning. Clack Clack Clack. There was no other solution but to sever the fingers and let go of the thread that held the remnants of humanity above the teeming wilderness below.

Smug

Smug thug

Smug thug pug

Pug thug

Thug

You look at me with your young eyes

and you do not see me.

You see a crippled old man

hobbling over a walking frame

legs bowed from Polio’s kiss

spine curved from Gravity’s cruelty.

You watch me manoeuvre that frame

from road to path via gutter

and wonder if I’ll fall backwards.

Well, so do I. Every day.

Still, the perils of an old, broken body

cannot stop the muscles controlling my joy

and if you look closely, beyond the liberal creases

of the years I’ve lived

up through the crevices of endurance…

if you guide your gaze to my eyes

you will see they are still dancing.

Oh yes, they will never stop dancing.

He came to town one Thursday

all dirty, wild and worn.

His steed was lithe and sturdy

His clothes were slightly torn.

People started whispering

as townsfolk often do:

Was this bloke a traveller?

or from that mining crew?

He settled in the local pub

and hogged the bloody fire

brooding over middies

until he’d then retire.

The local folk were edgy

at this silent, dusty stranger.

He seemed to carry with him

an air of sullen danger.

Just a few days later on

the whole town met to ponder

the man who’d built their township

and another one just yonder.

Old Man Age had taken him

a week or so before

and everyone who knew him

felt a sadness to the core.

So as the speeches ended

and the silence fell around

the Stranger put his hand up

and his voice he finally found:

“I’ve come to town to pay respects

to the man who gave me life.

I have no other siblings

nor a mother, nor a wife.

And now I have no father

with whom to reconcile.

Stubbornness and petty pride

made me a imbecile.

30 years ago we fought

and 30 years have fled

with not a word between us

and now, my father’s dead.

So take my words and listen

for I’m leaving town today:

Never let the curtain fall

on a half-arsed written play.”

It looked tasty so I wrapped my mouth around it.

When I tried to swallow there was a sharp feeling in my mouth.

Then a pulling sensation.

Then a massive lurch forward.

It felt as though my lips were being ripped out of my head.

I tried to resist but the more I struggled to swim away the more painful it was.

I knew I was in trouble when I couldn’t breathe.

The bright light I only ever saw through the shimmering shield of my watery home was suddenly all I could see. I desperately wanted to close my eyes but couldn’t because I don’t have eyelids.

Then, I was flying for the first time in my life. Flying above my home with empty lungs. Flying like those creatures I often saw above me.

When I hit a hard surface I was grabbed by the hard hands of a big monster.

It ripped something out of my mouth and I screamed. I don’t think it heard me.

You don’t want to know what happened next because it involves a long sharp object – and being gutted and skinned alive.

It was very unpleasant and I died from agonising asphyxiation.

That was not a very good day.

I will be honest:

After hours I sometimes

read Treasure Island.

Immobilized by

inconquerable lethargy

powered by unconscious lungs

herded by panic as limbs clash with intention

the trance that will not let you wake nor allow sleep immerses you in an ocean of curiously pointless struggle through the thickened nothingness of indecipherable transparency making for an interesting cruise through the watery plot of a drowning dream

Hello fellow poets. My name is Jenny from the Blue Mountains NSW and I’m looking forward to reading and writing Poetry Of The Sleepless Mind. Will the poetry of 2am be as coherent (or not) as the poetry of Midday? I have no doubt this will be very interesting project to be a part of and look forward to the stimulation it generates!