Waiting for the castaway | Taking drugs for the first time | at a strangers’ party | Arguing with the nightclub bouncers | who threw you into the street | The long reaches of a dream, it turned out | to be a dream, you | had called it your life and thought | it had hard edges, concrete, truth | but it was like a stage set, and then, one day | apparently by chance | you noticed the seats where the audience were watching | and then | you walked out of the theatre | Making love for the first time | not knowing how you would ever | get back, afterwards | Writing poems for the first time | Waiting for the shipwreck | Alone | for the last time | Dying for the only time | The fires you lit, the flags and banners, the messages | written giant into the sand | on the slender hope of passing aeroplanes | or boats | driven from their normal course | by wild storms | Noticing the way space | changed when you were high | The trudging sound of footsteps for what seemed | like days | the air still, inert | Not intending to return | And suicides | unable to find | the right note | the correct tone | and so | living | By accident, in a remote | part of the desert | like a message, but not really | a message | stumbling on | the scapegoat’s bones

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, August 2015)

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