Lily Poole

By Jack O'Donnell

A ground-breaking blend of ghost story, murder mystery and Scottish social drama

Monday, 15 September 2014


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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