I've severed my conscious from the backplates of my brain. I’ve pleated vine and cord through the cracks of my rib, bedsores spreading across my ever-paling appearance. I haven't left this hole in weeks.
I get nauseous at my own proof of life, conviction, correction of every flaw flowing out the gaps in my crooked mouth. I let insecurity envelop me, so I hide. I hibernate through nightfall and shorter sunshine. I paint powder over blemishes and broken bones. I crave to be coddled in frozen droplets and sheer fabrics that cool my skin; But I can't bear to be draped in anything but harsh winter coats and the pudge that distorts my figure.
Maybe, I'm addicted to hatred. A taste so strong I can only starve it out of my system - though I'd drown in the taste of every regret I've shoved down. Every loss of control is sharp at the end, blackening my ivories and souring my savory-sweet till I'm all overt ailment and I can't salt the snow that strikes me.
Over time, I've been pricked and prodded. What is now only winter breath replacing empty calories down my throat. What was once soft snowfall is now avalanche, and I can't bring myself to do anything but lay down and freeze.
I am mesmerized by TV
on Wednesday and Thursday I laid in a recliner all day
my butt making an impression that will be there forever
I almost have bedsores
today I finally shook myself out of this heavenly chair
at two p.m.
I have traveled six steps from recliner to porch chair
where I sit in the sun
basking like a fat fluffy happy cat
wondering how I have missed all of these hours of perfect weather
glad I escaped the dark tomb of the living room
the TV calls my name and I try to ignore it
Then my fluffy blanket gives me a yell
this gets me back inside; I love my naps
retirement is a gift!
from a sweetened
green spring
ripples of
sanguineous salt
a mixing bowl
brings forth
oceans and trees
cans, cigarettes
stains on carpets
like bedsores
We pack our elders away like old photos?
To spend their golden years under roofs of bedsores and neglect.
Is it too much to ask to fix up that spare bedroom?
So they can spend their last years around love.
Do for them the like they once did for us.
When life chewed our hearts and spit us into darkness.
Yes, there will be adjustments and frustration.
They've so little control over their faculties.
(Much like us when we were their babies).
They'll keep us up at night with demands
Just like we once did to them.
So, suck it up-fix up that spare bedroom.
Make the best of it...
Put some thought and heart into it,
A few photos, a vase of smiling flowers.
Sprinkle in a few sunny time mementos.
Hold their hand, stay with them a while.
Keep the drapes open to let a piece of sky in.
Small things make a big difference.
‘babes you need UV protection’
from top to tail and midsection
‘I’m African don’t be daft’
quite insulted she laughed
a masterpiece of self deception
but the tan worshipper in Cape Town
decided her skin must get more brown
took a book to sun
but it was ’Shantaram’
now she got blisters and a burnt frown
the sequel is called ‘Mountain Shadow’
900 pages to become quite aglow
thought she reflected her lesson
from scripted obsession
and consumed part two in the snow
she became frosted in flakes and purblind
‘babes some advice if you don’t mind’
the book has dangerous thickness
and then there is altitude sickness
Mount Kilimanjaro can be unkind
now she reads reclined in the boudoir
fact fiction fantasy and mysterious lore
Hawaiian tropic neath pajamas on cutis
sun shades and bedsores on gluteus
and wonders what else reading has in store
should she try with fins snorkel and mask
but corals sting and sharks have a blast
a most unappealing notion
why not apply sun lotion
and make misconception a thing of the past
14th June 2020
a true story and part of the family legend
A true writer when consigned to their virus induced self-isolation
Might want to consider turning over in bed for hot contemplation
Passion cannot be subdued by staying at home for an interim stay
But once you have bedsores you can’t even shop for emollient spray
If you are lucky to share undercover mission with a like-minded soul
Change perspective paradigm and position but don’t fight for control
Poetry is no competition but a contagious need for sharing and caring
Sharpen your quill and be receptive because two scripts make a pairing
When words fail lie speechless and gather momentum for further action
Of mind soul and body until figures of speech gain metaphorical traction
Epic love stories aren’t written in one short night on an immaculate sheet
And when the curfew curtain draws longer do not refrain but press on repeat
28th arch 2020
Hap, hap, happy day, it's Friday once more
Look forward each week, my work was a bore
Same old grind
Going outta my mind
Hope this weekend I don't get too many bedsores
© Jack Ellison 2015
I pray Almighty,
my freakazoid parents
the self-proclaimed-pulpits
of puritanical pious
and pompous selfish
keep their cult like claws
away from my throat,
and respect my
sanctimonious death wish.
Otherwise, I may have to kill them.
Or at least break their hearts.
I am with that crazy ass Pope.
Let them pull the plug!
Draft me not for life support
puncutated by agonizing bedsores.
And Heaven forbid,
please keep me from them
dragging my fragile bones
disgracefully through the courts
and turning my private slip
into a public script.
Please, please, please,
I pray they leave
my morphine shell alone.
Let me sleep
in sweet psychodelic dreams.
Let me sleep in peace.
Amen.
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