There’s someone in the house, I think. I’m being robbed.
No, I’m not. It wasn’t me who shook myself awake.
I’m puking the future you’ve already seen
into existence. This is how I make night
last longer. I sleepwalk long distances over cities
still smouldering from the great fires within their walls.
I trample bodies, cries, silences. I am
the new Jerusalem, the sole survivor, crusader, creator. I am
the Creator. A restrained panic crawls out of me
with a tentative helloooo. Stomach juices run out
of the corners of my mouth. Free from punctuation,
my voice feels its way through the concentric rings of adrenaline
down the hallway. Again, helloooo.
I’ve seen a whole scrapyard
of hi, hello, how do you do? spreading all over the dense outskirts
of the planet, unguarded multiplications of the same cell
pouring out of the horns of plenty.
Listen, this is how I catalogue my chances
for immortality. I’ve also given up my midnight snacks.
I’m bellowing thick acidic clots of blood in the toilet bowl,
splatters of carob-brown vomit break open my chest
like a gunshot wound. I cannot look
inside myself. Not because I’m squeamish.
It just isn’t there. Is it sadness
or unhappiness? The truth is, I don’t know.
Would this have happened if I had a wife
to cook wholesome meals for me?
My throat swells
overstretched with the present tense.
Copyright © Glen Calleja 2016
Glen Calleja is a creative whose artistic research often leads to cross poetry, storytelling and performance. He also designs and makes handmade artistbooks.