At the market

 

At the market

 

Particularly when HIGH

The visions held with greater sensitivity

& the reason why Rastas sacrament the sacred

 

Are the expressions of the pigs’ heads

At the butchers

Torture into trauma

Have stayed with me

& completely put me off my appetite

 

& anyway

I’ve eaten too much meat

Since my wife & I split

To much loveless food

 

Time for an overhaul

Time to be ital

 

 

--

It wasn’t just the pigs’ heads

 

It wasn’t just the tortured expressions on pigs’ heads’ faces that took away my appetite

I just generally have a feeling of nausea

As I wait to get ducks in a row

Again at such a metaphor my nausea flares

There’s a lot of things up in the air about my living shituation

My loneliness & lack of tribe at Christmas time

I feel remote, cut adrift from others

Living a counter experience to them

As my friends celebrate the holidays with family

& me an orphan

I’m aware of the dark cloud swirling around me

& there’s nothing I can do about it

& so I avoid, wherever possible, conversations

 

I have no appetite for life

It appears to me sterile

Like I am repeating twenty all over again

Cut adrift from God

From any kind of value

In an absurd, random & incredibly violent universe

I am doing time

 

& so I visit a café alone & write

Not because I am ‘cool’ but because it’s all that prevents me

From heading back to bed at two o’clock in the afternoon for the rest of the day

I write to find some easing

To keep myself at all alive

Better nausea, is my faith, than absolute darkness

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.