Editor Christopher Writes – A Poem A Day For A Year: 04/02/15

OK, so the last few nights I have either been a little too drunk or a little too much in searing pain to write a proper blog. Even a proper poem. I did a haiku the other night. I’m not saying haiku is a cheap form of poetry. I know they take skill and precision but I felt like I had cheated a little bit.

Right now it is 9:30am so I am getting a little jump on this today. I have just gotten out of the dentist and, for the first time in 72 hours, I can feel no pain at all. It feels amazing. I do know though that by tonight the pain could have come back and complete ruin any thoughts I would have of doing this properly. It has rendered me completely void over the last few days – I have not had the capacity to do anything for Bunbury, even the simplicity of Twitter. I did not go to Do The Write Thing last night. There are a couple of interviews I should have put together too, and there has just been no room in my brain to think about anything like that.

The thought of the pain terrifies me. I mean, I had toothache pretty much every day whilst I was in uni and I was a complete jackass at uni, who was not really grabbing life by the short and curlies. The pain, as I said, blocked all capacity for anything productive. And I was mean too. I really do not want to be that person any more. I like to think I have completely changed my life over the last three years and am actually starting to work towards big, massive, astronomically wonderful things, both professionally and personally. I know if the toothache returns and I regress it could all go away and it terrifies me.

Having said all that, I am still completely numb down the right side of my face from the dentist and it feels amazing. They loaded me up good and proper. I still haven’t really slept for 72 hours though so, while this is longer than the last few nights, I shall be cutting it short here and getting on with the poem.

Here is a poem.

Darkness explodes and I can hear colour,

hot statics, ringing and hollering as my

vision pulsates.

Underneath brick-patterned knuckles

my skin is attacked white hot

smashed visceral.

My finger nails are stuffed with hair

which perfectly matches empty

follicles on my skull.

The darkness explodes again,

purples, red, greens, fluorescent

garish blinding and I can feel

myself falling back, everything slows

and I feel every agonising second.

Horizontal now and the light flickers

above me, tunnelling, sparking

into life as it feels like my spark is dying.

The light rushes towards me and I see

angels, waiting the shepherd me from the pain,

shimmering instruments of power glinting

in their grasp.

‘Open wide, Mr Smith.


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