Tuesday 4th January 2011, A. Palmer
I’m on the edge here.
Looking over releases that rush,
where the buzz of my own mortality
tickles my demons, their tongues
licking viciously around the word.
In that second,
we expect everything to become clear,
to see true desire arrive at the eleventh hour
and save the day like some anti-hero.
But it doesn’t.
It just evaporates into a hot back,
and a mind stuck on pause, blank,
stuttering like producers of live TV in a hairy moment.
Thankfully, I’m gripped by fear.
It holds me back like a loving one.
Don’t do it, the nausea pleads.
So I don’t. I’m sick instead.
The hero leaves my body like
a knight riding off into a sequel-
a white one with orange bits in.