injecting the black

Poem #105 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction

he writes
the dolorous passages
that will
place him in the deep recess

he has written this place
with its scummy cobbles
that refract slick light
from a distant street lamp
through the ever-puddling
thin rain

the garbage skip
the garbage
the dead-ended fence
with a discrete corner
tucked away
from the light

a surreal noir effect
he knows

he has scrawled it
many times

and there he is
in person
described at full length
in his scruff
and torn jeans

beside him

a small stoppered bottle
filled with floating ideas
and moving images

a spoon
and a gas lighter
to distil them with

a writer-thing
that looks
like an old fountain pen

lever at the side
to draw up
the brew

button at the top
to inject
through the obviously used
the many times
ball point

he has scribbled in
a tourniquet
no more than a paragraph
but in this excerpt
it is hanging
around the upper arm

the ball point
is leaking
stray sensories

something seen

something touched

something desired

trickling away
it’s no matter

he has written himself
injected his potpourri
of captured source
to overflowing

hardly aware now
he is locked
into narrative waves

are inhabiting him
rising fully formed
at the touch of a stray thought
to stand before his scrutiny
with every new breath
he takes

this is an affliction
and may prove

god knows
what might happen
were someone to try
an act of reform

to remove him
from the black poison
of his image jar
and the cherished
that flows
when he presses down
the top of the ballpoint

he would keep breathing
some part of him
would die

© Frank Prem 2017

Bachelard and me Poem #106: in repose

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