Lily Poole
By Jack O'Donnell
A ground-breaking blend of ghost story, murder mystery and Scottish social drama
Monday, 15 September 2014
Muddler
Something I jotted down. Muddled through. Not sure what to do. It takes two minutes to pledge. Please do. Someone, somewhere knows how to?
A puddle for a head.
Do the maths.
I’m in decline.
But I feel fine.
I’m human.
That’s my failing.
A life past caring.
I’m glitter and glue.
Tweaked to be like you.
I’m a sulking place.
Lurching out of view.
I’m someone.
Ask me? Ask me?
Are you somebody?
I’m swollen like a pouter pigeon.
A special kind of seriousness.
Forlorn, raptured with weariness.
I’m broken.
A vial of a bedraggled species.
I’m absent, rotten, another shore.
They really could tell.
I don’t. They won’t. God.
Among furniture I dwell.
I’m sure I’ll get well.
There’s a voice.
It says: ‘oh, no’.
A streak of light.
Then here we go.
I’m on another planet.
It circles nearby.
Just like ours.
No one is not as they seem.
We cultivate kindness as a crop.
Not as a dream.
I’m terminally unsure.
My body a theatre of war.
Let me lie another minute.
And listen to before.
I’m weary of being a placard.
A person like me.
A threat of -- you’re going to be.
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