The Blind Swimmer

I get so bored with my own stuff now, it’s an effort to revise it.  Is there a mixed metaphor in here?  Can’t be bothered to mull it over. In any case: somebody once pointed out there’s a mixed metaphor in, “To be or not to be…” Now that’s the sort of debate they invented postcards for.

08 All Alone

Enfold yourself in Night

A seed that has forgotten how to bloom

That has lost hope – knowing that joy and jeopardy

Are closely, dangerously aligned; and safety

Clings too tight for you to move, and chance imperils.

Your lost years are a nimbus, a daydream mislaid.

And Youth is distanced; an exotic country

Whose air is filled with spices, or the shrieks of monkeys.

Age brings the mantle of a wistful midnight land

And it is poison: poison fingers,

Their saprophytic smear.

43 A Siren Sound


No words, now.  Each book is now a glass book,

A book of glass, yet lit too darkly to remember,

A library as if beneath the sea.


112 Beachcombers, Thames

A child, whose warmth must not be breached

Whose skin must not be violated

Seeks out stasis, at all costs.

And so it is with me.

To me the night is sombre silt.

It is the comfort of the grave,

Without needing first to die.


Just think of this as a round-the-world-tour ending in a mudpit.  Mixed metaphor? Sorted.






~ by Stephen Jackson on September 27, 2014.

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