I have never known such loneliness
as this – I have my radio playing – a
streaming selection – my stomach’s
delicate lining was knifed [I sit alone
with my switched-on-kettle]/ This is
a cold space in which I live – & never
will I fill – with this one human form/
My broken parts rattle when shook/
I have never known such sadness – a
slippage of loose dunes [formless &
in motion] – forever – never settled in
this landscape/ I was a resolved rock
until pebbles were cast – a relentless
shower of fuck-ups & fucks [fuck off]
Tag: loneliness
One Man Show
His Truman-esque Show stretches to Peacehaven
in his hoax East Sussex
Here he sucks on sea air tasting far away origins –
but no sandy footprints –
shores are shingle-thick & slope down to meet a
cold dip of toes – no sun
from falling lamps/ Paint your backdrops in green –
your long tales are fakes
& Zoom will not save any alliance built on groping/
A blind fool counts waves
as they break [over bared flesh on beaches] He’ll sit
& count for a seventh curl
but love will not deliver an easy refrain – a gale blows
away his lust-pulled attire
as he stands & sighs – he is offered no focus pull to
ease him from this scene
Loneliness?
Is it that [noticeable] difference between [all of] our estimations of how our now life develops & our realised truths – confronted in our [day-to-day] attested life seen by one self? My loneliness materializes as a near-to hollow arousal & interior conversations alongside familiarities – without sex & kisses – to make me slide
from my oh-too-dreadful times I come to – after fearful dreams of her rousing weaves of scent – of that stuff been slept through It forms into a recall of my dark
night’s one act of creative work If it wasn’t for those sighs from my sleeping dog my loneliness would suggest – Never wake up
Endeavouring
‘Grant me chastity and continence
but not yet’ The Confessions Book VIII
Like Morse [& St Augustine]
my desire for sorrow swells
in readings & discrepancies
& ageing & in old intentions
Anxiety is in my every hour –
not in a lost past / My fiction
creates loneliness in a lit cell
of rented space / We end up
poor in temporary lodgings –
paying for bright biographies
& hope to be lent an apology
before a modern novel writer
has entwined our plots & lies
Time can be limited by love’s
hard labour & its indifference
in books we’ll never look over
MIKE BELL | 10,000 Poems 