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Literature Text
nine.
one.
one.
what is your
emergency?
---
emerge is to not be something before
it is.
sudden
like sticking things into the fog and creating ghosts
like a magician's act, the rabbit out of the tall hat – poof.
it is not there, it is there.
we'll contemplate about existence, about being, about
development and evolvement, later.
-ency.
forget about the fact that it sounds as stupid as it looks
know that it means consistency as well as dependency
and then realise that emerge-ency
does in fact
sounds as stupid as it looks.
call nine-one-one.
yes
that, in fact, sounds as stupid as it looks.
because
unless they are screaming hell and murder
or dying from leaking arteries
(perhaps
an articulate collision of cookie jars)
we can not call nine-one-one
and tell them that the problem
remains unidentified.
---
imagine this.
help
i went to sleep last night and woke up,
holding a retired soul ready to be put down
placed to rest by its dreams and their failure to commit
the type of dreams that refused to
become liable and shed their shortcoming,
when i suddenly remembered that this,
this is not my home.
operator asks,
if i recognise where i am and to describe
this part of my snow globe.
i tell her yes; this is my bed and these are my sheets
the one with the big cow that says 'wow, it is a cow'
(the one i never fully understood the humour of)
and these are the lines my curtains trace and those are my footprints along the wall
i can smell the cigarette smoke from the kitchen
(no, operator, my kitchen is not on fire)
and that right there, is a cemetery of mosquito carcasses.
this is my house, i say, this is my room and this is where i live.
operator asks if this is a joke and then hangs up.
---
imagine this.
help
my heart went missing.
possibly, it ran off
like sad teenagers do to escape
not realising that whatever they are chasing is only
red light
and a pair of new undies
every other week.
their hands too old and skin aged along the breaking lines
where hungry mouths believe they can distance
themselves from lust and devour innocence.
or perhaps
following the dream of ending up
on a carton box or with a black and white picture
in the local paper next to the section
'for sale'.
i wish i could say my heart was an addictive homeless person
sporting a massive beard and drinking
well,
mostly just around the clock,
running backwards and trying to catch the hands.
but no,
a heart can not be homeless, operator said.
she hangs up.
operator,
i am so sorry for bothering you.
---
after police and men in white coats came
to tell me i should not call nine-one-one again
i asked them if nine-one-one wasn't for those
in need of help
they told me to fuck off
emergency just means the existence of something consistent,
anyway.
go live for a living and carry noble men's shoes
around your neck.
---
imagine this.
you go to sleep
with the knowledge that
dreams will wait
until you wake up.
you are cold at the touch
you are ice, you've turned into stone
all your warming glory withered
in the absence of a heartbeat.
the heart was just a lover
and in the end all lovers end up leaving
behind multicoloured confetti scars
and you're not living for them others,
them common people,
but you forgot about that,
didn't you?
---
nine.
one.
one.
what is your emergency?
---
dear operator
i am an emergency,
a carousel car wreck
an airplane disaster and all those other things
that have a word and a meaning
but don't make any frigging sense.
i wish i was a highway collision
an accidental drowning or
plainly robbed from my tv
(please, do me that favour)
but i am not.
i am an unidentified tragedy
starving because the words in my throat are stuck
i smile as if i will always be lonely and smoke
too damn much,
and i just wanted to tell you that i am having a fucking great time,
even though i know you know i don't.
i hold a homeless heart
and a restless soul
and i want the words i wrote somewhere on a wall
and i go to sleep
knowing
i should not call nine-one-one again.
---
let us just forget,
and let's forget that this sounds
as stupid as it looks.
P.S. this has nothing to do with driving on the wrong side of the road, but now that you've mentioned it, what is the wrong side anyway?
one.
one.
what is your
emergency?
---
emerge is to not be something before
it is.
sudden
like sticking things into the fog and creating ghosts
like a magician's act, the rabbit out of the tall hat – poof.
it is not there, it is there.
we'll contemplate about existence, about being, about
development and evolvement, later.
-ency.
forget about the fact that it sounds as stupid as it looks
know that it means consistency as well as dependency
and then realise that emerge-ency
does in fact
sounds as stupid as it looks.
call nine-one-one.
yes
that, in fact, sounds as stupid as it looks.
because
unless they are screaming hell and murder
or dying from leaking arteries
(perhaps
an articulate collision of cookie jars)
we can not call nine-one-one
and tell them that the problem
remains unidentified.
---
imagine this.
help
i went to sleep last night and woke up,
holding a retired soul ready to be put down
placed to rest by its dreams and their failure to commit
the type of dreams that refused to
become liable and shed their shortcoming,
when i suddenly remembered that this,
this is not my home.
operator asks,
if i recognise where i am and to describe
this part of my snow globe.
i tell her yes; this is my bed and these are my sheets
the one with the big cow that says 'wow, it is a cow'
(the one i never fully understood the humour of)
and these are the lines my curtains trace and those are my footprints along the wall
i can smell the cigarette smoke from the kitchen
(no, operator, my kitchen is not on fire)
and that right there, is a cemetery of mosquito carcasses.
this is my house, i say, this is my room and this is where i live.
operator asks if this is a joke and then hangs up.
---
imagine this.
help
my heart went missing.
possibly, it ran off
like sad teenagers do to escape
not realising that whatever they are chasing is only
red light
and a pair of new undies
every other week.
their hands too old and skin aged along the breaking lines
where hungry mouths believe they can distance
themselves from lust and devour innocence.
or perhaps
following the dream of ending up
on a carton box or with a black and white picture
in the local paper next to the section
'for sale'.
i wish i could say my heart was an addictive homeless person
sporting a massive beard and drinking
well,
mostly just around the clock,
running backwards and trying to catch the hands.
but no,
a heart can not be homeless, operator said.
she hangs up.
operator,
i am so sorry for bothering you.
---
after police and men in white coats came
to tell me i should not call nine-one-one again
i asked them if nine-one-one wasn't for those
in need of help
they told me to fuck off
emergency just means the existence of something consistent,
anyway.
go live for a living and carry noble men's shoes
around your neck.
---
imagine this.
you go to sleep
with the knowledge that
dreams will wait
until you wake up.
you are cold at the touch
you are ice, you've turned into stone
all your warming glory withered
in the absence of a heartbeat.
the heart was just a lover
and in the end all lovers end up leaving
behind multicoloured confetti scars
and you're not living for them others,
them common people,
but you forgot about that,
didn't you?
---
nine.
one.
one.
what is your emergency?
---
dear operator
i am an emergency,
a carousel car wreck
an airplane disaster and all those other things
that have a word and a meaning
but don't make any frigging sense.
i wish i was a highway collision
an accidental drowning or
plainly robbed from my tv
(please, do me that favour)
but i am not.
i am an unidentified tragedy
starving because the words in my throat are stuck
i smile as if i will always be lonely and smoke
too damn much,
and i just wanted to tell you that i am having a fucking great time,
even though i know you know i don't.
i hold a homeless heart
and a restless soul
and i want the words i wrote somewhere on a wall
and i go to sleep
knowing
i should not call nine-one-one again.
---
let us just forget,
and let's forget that this sounds
as stupid as it looks.
P.S. this has nothing to do with driving on the wrong side of the road, but now that you've mentioned it, what is the wrong side anyway?
Suggested Collections
thank you, buddy wakefield.
© 2012 - 2024 PassionsInsanity
Comments4
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like sticking things into the fog and creating ghosts
like a magician's act,
Awesome line! Have you ever heard of the poet Buddy Wakefield? This kind of reminds me of something he would write.
I have to admit, though, that after that line, the rest of the stanza felt a little clunky. I can't exactly put my finger on why, but it just lacks a particular rhythm and feels more like a rant.
The poem does, however, strengthen a great deal with each stanza. It's just that first one that could use some tidying up. Perhaps you could even omit. Overall, though, wonderful work.
like a magician's act,
Awesome line! Have you ever heard of the poet Buddy Wakefield? This kind of reminds me of something he would write.
I have to admit, though, that after that line, the rest of the stanza felt a little clunky. I can't exactly put my finger on why, but it just lacks a particular rhythm and feels more like a rant.
The poem does, however, strengthen a great deal with each stanza. It's just that first one that could use some tidying up. Perhaps you could even omit. Overall, though, wonderful work.