Thread: Inbetween times
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Unread 10-14-2019, 02:31 PM
Matt Q Matt Q is offline
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Join Date: May 2013
Location: England, UK
Posts: 3,446
Default Inbetween times

Seven years is too long

Two-and-half hours, and then a rest.
That is his grind.
These are his days.

Half an hour of lying down,
If he’s at his best.

Two-and-half hours more,
Then half an hour again.
If the day is good.

These are the bars.
This is the cage.
This is his malaise.

.............*

His night sweats
....like a midnight tide
saline, creeping, wet.

.............*

Today he learns another word for fog.
Why should that please him?
But it does.
Smur,
a drizzled mist,
a mix, he thinks, of smudge and blur,
a hint of smear.
He’d like to know a hundred more.
Although it’s fog he has inside his head,
not snow.

.............*

The sweet songbirds of his energies,
he holds them close,
tries not to squeeze.

.............*

What he borrows,
he borrows from tomorrow.
What he repays,
he repays in days.

.............*

Oh, that, he says,
that’s the overfed cat
of fatigue, with its fondness
for songbirds,
which it paws to the floor
with the bluntest of claws,
and grows fat.

.............*

He starts to think of Sartre,
wears a beret, wishes
that his nausea were gentler,
and merely existential.

.............*

The ache is in his muscles, not his bones.
And also in his bones.

.............*

As if some great river had poured
for seven years into a fissure
in the earth, until that river
had dwindled to a stream,
that, he would say,
is how it’s been,

if someone were to ask him.
But they don’t.


---------------------------
New title "A life at intervals" -> "Seven years is too long"
Part 6, "its nausea claws" -> "the bluntest of claws"
Part 7 is new
Part 9, S2L1 now ends in a full stop.

---------------------------

A life at intervals


Two-and-half hours, and then a rest.
That is his grind.
These are his days.

Half an hour of lying down,
If he’s at his best.

Two-and-half hours more,
Then half an hour again.
If the day is good.

These are the bars.
This is the cage.
This is his malaise.

.............*

His night sweats
....like a midnight tide
saline, creeping, wet.

.............*

Today he learns another word for fog.
Why should that please him?
But it does.
Smur,
a drizzled mist,
a mix, he thinks, of smudge and blur,
a hint of smear.
He’d like to know a hundred more.
Although it’s fog he has inside his head,
not snow.

.............*

The sweet songbirds of his energies,
he holds them close,
tries not to squeeze.

.............*

What he borrows,
he borrows from tomorrow.
What he repays,
he repays in days.

.............*

Oh, that, he says,
that’s the overfed cat
of fatigue, with its fondness
for songbirds, which it paws
to the floor with its nausea claws,
and grows fat.

.............*

The ache is in his muscles, not his bones.
And also in his bones.

.............*

As if some great river had poured
for seven years into a fissure
in the earth, until that river
had dwindled to a stream,
that, he would say,
is how it’s been,

if someone were to ask him,
but they don’t.

.

II, L1 "Night sweats" -> "His night sweats"
VIII, S1L6, full stop->comma

Last edited by Matt Q; 10-24-2019 at 05:49 AM.
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