Brain-dead

By Simon Barget

Wed, 15 Aug 2012
  • 678 reads
3 comments
 

2 till four.

Clouds hang back and brain is dead.
Real feel, 106.
I'll prick my lips with cocktail sticks to check that I'm alive.

This mute and frigid air. This stupid swamp.
Sits dead-weight on my throat and turns my blood to sludge.
I dare not move.
Just wait it out with the trees for the slightest whiff of breeze.

The cat turned in hours ago, spread-eagled on the deck.

My balls pressed flat to my thighs.

I think I'll take a ride out on the bike.
In 7-Eleven it's below 65.

Certificate 15
Poem
Autobiography

Comments

Submitted by blackjack-davey on
I like the sinister feel, the images and the resolution: the trip to the air-con aisles of a 7-11. 'Real-feel' is a great phrase, reminds the reader of life how it might be felt, rather than the zoned out zombie state of sticking cocktail sticks in lips. The cat pooped out too. I hope that pre-dawn breeeze fans you back to life!

 

Submitted by Natalia on
Nice. Really enjoyed this. Particularly liked 'the mute and frigid air' for some reason. The poem has a great feel to it. I look forward to reading more of your work! Natalia :)

Natalia :)

Submitted by Simon Barget on
Ooh thanks, Natalia. Really nice to hear that....when I don't get cherries, I often feel like I've failed and have a good cry (which is frequently recently)