I have become the dead hour at Woolnoth
a sloth full of woe
and with nowhere to go
I go nowhere,see nothing.
Paradoxically
the deeper I sink
the higher I get.
I am set out on a table like gelatine,flowing slowly with nothing,is this a dream?
I need something soft on my skin
I need raindrops to stop me and let me get in
I need to touch and to feel that even I could begin,
but the clock strikes on dull,
I feel the stretching of sinews and I use up the 'tramadol'full already with 'aspirin' and 'panadol', and the mobile just lights up with the letters that spell out LOL.
it's the way not to start any day but the day never knew me.
I fly with the kites and am tangled in wires and the sloth only wants to settle,dreaming in spires, I aspire to be more than the dead hour.
I need to shower but the motivation eludes me and I sink further into the stink that I am become,
you can shun me I don't care.
I'm a slow learner on the back burner and I can't turn tin into gold,I need to be held,felled and falling into something more appealing instead of sinking into somnambulence and bouncing off the ceiling.

This is the state of play.

Nothing to do
everything to say
nothing to live for but sloths want much more ,as if there's a fire that burns deep inside them,ignites when they find they become men, and then there is Woolnoth,gothic and brooding.

Great poets don't die they live on and they lie in the beds between other poets heads and whisper,
do you hear them? the
ignition men
or do you hear the dull sound on the last stroke of nine?