Battle the wind / Hospital Seating

Battle the wind 

Trying to find the solid ground,
my eyes are useless in this dark ocean,
storm is battering my senses -
every breath without water in my lungs
is a victory.

I would use a compass if I had a moment
just to use my hands, to steady the waves
still my body, and contemplate
the usefulness of the machinery
at my fingertips.

Yes I know if I speak the words
the winds will stop, no need to shout at me
I know the solid lump stuck behind my breathing
will still the ocean, but if I could just have a moment
to analyse - pause time for me, oh god
I am not prepared,
and there must be some solid ground
around here somewhere.






Hospital Seating

Sterile room, plastic chair,
black line on the wall, runs 
right through my ears. 
Eyes focussed on a speck
I wonder how long it has been there -
stench of bleach or disinfectant
burns my nostrils, like a buzzing
I can’t focus on.

I wonder, when will it start?
The 5, or the 7, or the 
whatever the fuck how many it is
stages of grieving. On a plastic chair,
waiting for them to hit me.

Will it hurt? Did it hurt?
When they opened you up, 
to find out how you’d been opened up?
Will it hurt at stage 1 when this sinks in
like our little plastic toy ships
sank into the mud pies we made 
on the back porch?
They were so mad with the mess
we made with our hands.

Maybe this is stage zero, a stage
before the stages because I can’t feel anything.
Just a plastic chair, and a buzzing 
in my nostrils, some ringing in my ears perhaps.
Words spoken with downcast eyes
clanging around my skull - 
that you didn’t make it. Make what?

We made plenty, why not this?
Stage whatever the fuck might be denial,
might be anger, might be 
I don’t know - you were the one 
who took psychology, not me.
Tell me what to feel, but only 
if you tell me it won’t hurt.

I think I’ll stay seated, thank you.
Maybe some water, thank you. 
No, there is no one you can call, thank you.