It's all over -- thirty days and thirty poems. I managed to write a lot of dodgy poems that most probably won't see the light of day. Maybe something will come out of them. I've got the writing bug though and I might as well keep on going for December. Here is one of the pieces. Warning it is very rough.
You Sleep Under White Noise
Once, in your sleep, you said
that you had a crush on Rod Serling
and that at times you felt
as if you lived your life in The Twilight Zone.
You hum with the air conditioner
and say there are moments when you find yourself chilled
wandering through a candle-lit room. And there's a door.
And something begs you not to open this door
it screams inside you and says
that they are trying to make a television out of you
that they will connect you to wires
that they will hook you up to a satellite dish.
You say there are no more channels left to explore.
And now they are trying to bust you down to size
and transform you into a cloud
they want to import you into files and folders
and turn you into raw footage.
It is clear to you now,
they want to store a version of you in a box
and burn an image of them onto your heart.
You sit up and wonder what time it is on the moon
as you drain whiskey into your gullet
you realise that one day you will write a manual
on how to attach a two pronged plug to your heart.
The night turns chardonnay
as you tune the radio
a chaffinch hops out of your mouth
and tells you life is where the dead are
it whirrs and flies out of the open window
spreading its wings all over the world.