Transparent Words - Poetry

 
Dee Rimbaud
IT'S FRIDAY AND THEY DON'T SEND FLOWERS ANYMORE
 
 Itís Friday and they donít send flowers anymore. There is no opening in this door: just a punched hole of perspex, warm and smoky against my cheek. I see...
 
A void of chequered floor, an empty corridor, no-one allowed to visit anymore.
 
No more tripping of days in a blind haze of city streets, high on the secretions of forbidden adrenal glands. No more soft-centred clapping of hands. No more passes for the day. And all for my own good, they say.
 
Would that I were past caring: past wanting to share in the mad rambling circus of life... would that I could resign to a life confined: would that I could endure, but their pharmacology cannot affect a cure.
 
Yesterday, I ran helter-skelter, naked as a baby, all the way down the high street: handing out fistfuls of fivers to any woman I saw with sad brown eyes: any woman who looked like you.
 
I am burning my wings, my beautiful angel wings. The flames are carmine, scarlet, vermilion and crimson: hot as painted canvas; raw and violent as unreciprocated dreams.
 
There are shadows within the shadows. The ward is filled with shadows; and I am kept awake thruí the pre-dawn hours. The lithium, they say, is ineffectual. I am unresolved: their science, a library of undifferentiated symbols.
 
I cannot sleep. The blood rubs rough against the thin walls of my arteries: a skein of chemicals, devoid of volition, simmering in a gurgle of de-oxygenated agitation.
 
I smoke too many cigarettes. The nicotine clogs up, but does not dissolve, the acid salts beneath this skin. I am too thin: these protruding bones, a too prominent intimation of my mortality.
 
Autumn winds blow rusted leaves past the ward windows. Pensioner women wear poppies and think about dead lovers. And every time I close my eyes I see your face.
 
There is too much time for remembrance: not enough television to confuse the senses. I hear a sad trumpet. The queen lays down a wreathe in the blue flickering light. Summer is a closed door. Itís Friday... and they donít send flowers anymore.

 

Pg18

Previous   Return to Contents   Next