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.