Tuesday, 17 June 2008

But what must that feel like?

A couple of weeks ago, someone, for the first time, actually asked with just genuine interest what mixed state mania feels like. I was so taken aback at first at the shock of realising no-one had asked before that I just laughed for a while. This might give some flavour:

Bad morning

with a word, a closed face
and the jangle leaps up
from the old leather box
where I hid it last week:
a firebell the size of the moon
ringing noiseless in a vacuum

my temples fizz, fontanelle
opens cuchulain-style
and the clamour of the jangle
curdles in my belly
yoghurt, twisted hemp ~

shoulders hunch in
like a choked rat
and sharp bile slices
me open for dissection
groin to throat, a black cut ~

freeze. sit by the fire
until warmth bores me, burns me
and bores the jangle down ~

I am a conduit for black
electricity, someone
turned the voltage up
the breeze can trip
the slightest switch
which when flipped the wallop
the racking, the pressure
my poor frame cannot bear ~

it will shake me to my fibres
my insulation is all burned out
wires frayed, blackened, melted
no capacity remains

I am a rail, the ghost sponge
of iron tracks, rust-swelled
corroded canker, crushed
with every passing tram ~

living like a leaf
shaking like a web
cracking like a scab
collapsing like a snowflake
on the palm of my hand
healing is too hard ~
curl up, curl in, sleep

if you can.

I can't bear the thought of being
not-me apart from when I can't
bear being me. I am tougher
than I look. See, I've come this far.

1 comment:

Terra Incognita said...

Wow. That's good.
Why can't I be a poet?