Henry Bladon

Screams from beneath
a bed of rolling wrath,
while double-sided adrenaline
spews forth a sunset-spiked fury.

Hypnogogic mania
scored onto semi-conscious canvas.

Tectonic tempest projected on a gelatin screen.

White noise in hues of orange and brown
slide furious force over oil-stained empathy.

Amber bloom, carrot crunch, banana blend,
celery shard buried in julep swirl.

Lemon zest, swirling test.
Phosphenes the colour of anxiety.

A molecular maelstrom seeking the realm of a distant dream.

A tent was appropriate. Rational, even. After all, I read the phrase ‘freedom is the greatest luxury.’

Indulge your inner wanderer, I thought. Take the dog and we can both meet him there.

After I cook what the great man wants for supper, I’ll ask him whatever happened to the Ubermensch.

So exciting.

I spent two hours putting up the tent while other campers had BBQ fun.

I turned to the dog to say that now I was finally going to understand how I can stop grasping for a sense of achievement.

Only, the bastard didn’t turn up. I rang him but he didn’t answer. Typical of Nietzsche.

It was like that moment when you finally realise that toast is merely burnt bread.

Just to spite him I joined the BBQ and got drunk instead.

A blackened thumb so you cannot text.
A broken bone.
A blackened banana.
A withered vine.
A plotless novel that nobody reads.
A sink with no plug.
A clock with no hands.
A pointerless exit sign.
A keyholeless keyhole.
A rudderless ship that goes in circles.
A whistle with no pea.
A symphony without a tune.
A pen with no ink.
A map with no markings.
A diffident surgeon.

All useless.

Today the sun was too late for the sunrise and I knew
how it felt because I had to coax my body into action

I first went to the knitting shop and looked at all the wool
and thought tangled thoughts under the recessed lights

I went across the forecourt and past the bearded man
who was taking a picture of a tiny ladybird

I walked beside the cottonwood trees as they swayed in the wind
and covered all the cars with a layer of summer snow

I watched the gulls swarm ’round the uneaten remains
of fast-food cartons discarded on sun-stained grass

I thought about your fleshy lips and where we stood
on the colour wheel theory of love and how you laughed

when we stood on that bridge that time in Amsterdam
and I said I wanted to return my life but hadn’t kept the receipt

but as I sit on the wall and watch the incoming tide
I know I’m glad I never did.

A clown was sitting on the kerb outside a shop; he had his head in his hands.
Resting beside him was a coffee cup half full of gin.

A cat looked up from licking his paw. He paused and said,
What’s going on? You appear to be sulking.

The clown started shaking his head. It’s the end of the line, he said,
my life is reduced to trying to make snotty children laugh.

The cat snorted. If you don’t mind me saying, it looks like your mug is half empty.
When I’m dead I‘m having a bronze statue put up in my memory.

I could be doing something more meaningful like collecting seashells,
said the clown, or even counting egg-shaped pebbles on the beach.

Not exactly Panglossian, are you? said the cat as he trotted off.

A man wearing a red hat appeared from the shop
holding up a board with the words GIN SALE written in chalk

The best way to get her attention
would be to run my finger
across the edge of the paper

then I could tell her
all about her hermetically sealed heart

but that would be something
she wouldn’t understand

I could say it feels like
my life is stuck in a rainy car park
and that’s how it feels being with you

I would add that I have decided
I’m going to drive someplace else

but that would be something
she wouldn’t understand

So instead I ditched the metaphors
and walked away
but when I looked back

she still didn’t understand.