Hang-dog

Hangdog in my brow, eyes and soul (body)

Hangdog in my bones, my muscles, my legs,

Caught in between currents at sea

in a boat in a whirlpool

Vultures cry overhead

I am addicted to my bed

Suffering withdrawal I lie out

Calamities are calling

But I am deaf

I am focussed, bread

dead. Yet I breathe

and as I write this feel

something other. Personal,

Social, Public, personal,

persona, persona non grata.

Hangdog in my wrist, in my fist

fingers, hand, eyes, brow.

Hangdog has got me.

Will not let me go.

Stiff, unyielding, not alive

not dead. Not doll, not lead.

The ache in my back, kidneys

migrating, pain shock.

paracetamol, doors locked.

Personal shame, public blame

undying flame, stupid game.

Master and slave, dog and hangdog

winner and loser, alone but not alone

heart-tugging, souls shrugging

personal shame. It’s the name of the game

we play in life, who is up, who is next, who is out.

Fingers curl around my heart

and squeeze and shove. moving muscle

moving me from alone to convalesced.

Norton knows of my pain and on the

great plains I am next to Saffran Grass dead and

rotting already gone, yet at home I live, on.

The sounds from without punch a lonely

beat on the house on the street where

people shall meet and greet and glower and

soap and shower in full view of everyone.

My lamp glows steadfastly, its LED’s

unthinking, unaware of the milling around

of folk and their stories that bear heavily

like wild animals exploring man’s world.

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