share


First Blimp

Removing colour from my thoughts, I formed a winter ball. I threw it. The dead were uncounted. There was a distinct lack of emotion. A decreasing range of accountability. My histories became few. Then one. I wanted it to be like life, but I had nine, eight, seven micro-seconds with which to work. I went to shape it, and sprang it on you. No criminal consciousness. No automatic compensation. No new aftermath. I can’t count, but I try.

 

I am at home behind me. My history is an international house of calling cards. I fail to connect because I am dead or dying. It is surprising. I once considered skiing, skating, sliding, until finally I sat exhausted with my hat on. Gloves on. Long scarf and boots on. The centre of my house, on balance, is sub-zero. I peel off my socks and warm them in the microwave. I place my feet on a pillow. I wonder if this is like life. Colossal subroutines amass and disseminate above me. Then I’m right back up again, multihued historian among the clouds.


ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTOR

is the author of All This Could Be Yours..

READ NEXT

poetry

November 2014

Lay and Other Poems

Pere Gimferrer

TR. Adrian Nathan West

poetry

November 2014

Ode to Venice Before the Sea of Theaters (from Arde el mar, 1966)   The false cups, the poison,...

feature

February 2011

The dole, and other bailouts

Chris Browne

feature

February 2011

One of my first actions as a Londoner was to sign on for as many benefits as I could...

poetry

November 2014

Like Rabbits

Bethan Roberts

poetry

November 2014

When my husband unrolled the back door of the brewery’s lorry and hoisted first one cage, then another, onto...

 

Get our newsletter

 

* indicates required