I.
Perhaps I’m dying.
It’s December and
My legs will break
In the frost.
My jaw whips up saliva.
Tell me.

Am I lost?

II.
“It’s one road to hell
and one to the sea,
mum.
The diseased oyster
Gives us the pearl.”
I garble out my sentences
in a whirl,
My name is Arthur
And I’m ok,
I’m ok,
I’m ok…
When I was a little boy I would obsessively count
The fingers on my hands
(onetwothreefourfive - onetwothreefourfive)
To make sure I hadn’t lost one
During the day.

III.
I’m a construction.
I am failing.
It’s not poetic y’know –
No,
It’s pointless.
I am sailing with God and
His breath is in my nostrils,
I am taken hostage,
Alternating between
Spitting at my captor
And kissing the ends of his jeans.

IV.
(I am God’s son! Please God, please. Please. I want to live. I’ll give you anything. I want to live. **** anyone but me, anyone but me.)

V.
I will not sit like a jumbled mannequin
in the corner of a room.
I’m not going to lay down in
This tomb lightly
With flowers in my hair.
People say that the real tragedy
Of being human is that
We’re aware of own approaching demise,
But at the moment I’m
Not sure that's true.
We are only aware of it in a hazy,
Not-quite-there way.

I am stubborn.
And I am not convinced.

VI.
You’re punishing me
Aren’t you?
I never did too many bad things, anyway.
So goodnight then, day.
*******
I’m up up up up up up up
And away.

VII.
Holding a mug
Touching a face,

The cat –

Such little things
Are keeping me alive.
The melodrama.
The ******* melodrama!
Suicide.
God **** it!
You’re always

The

*STAR.