11pm.

Electric lights hum

in a gold frame around everything else,

vibrating very fast, at a high pitch.

The sound of something always moving,

that is the sound of being alive

in the modern age.

I don’t know when I last felt quiet.

The buzz of particles rushing is the

persistent ring that pops into an ear at altitude,

or after a sudden bang to the lower part of the head:

A metallic smack, the continues to murmer.

 

Against the black window everything is violent light,

sharp edges of orange brown coffee table,

yellow spikes of glass and clumpy shadows,

and then me. Suddenly here in this body that

breathes heavily, and rings in the ears and

the bones.

There is a glass of water I can’t understand,

sitting there with all it’s brash colours bouncing,

the reflections splintering in my eyes and against

the black windows – nothing can get out –

and as the air squeaks perpetually,

I am sure it must be moving.

 

(It hasn’t moved).

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