by John Smallshaw
Get me the telephone..
I need the fix in a voice like I once needed methadone..
..I hate being alone.
Get me the words in a book..
Give me a look at these things that are living.
Give me some giving.
Sometimes, late at night..when there's nothing around..the world's without sound..and I sit in the chair..
..it's like I'm not really there..
...like I've moved out in time..and I'm in a space that's not mine..and these moments go on..like the words in a song they run slow through the night where I'm sat in the chair and thinking I might not be here.
Fear is a part of it..a big piece of the start of it and Lord knows I'm not brave..I'm not the hero who could confront a dragon and save a maiden from death..I have to save up to save for my next breath but that's cool.
I see the face of the coward in the reflections of a fool..in a rock pool by the beach..and I'm still out of reach as I sit in the chair..
Not here or not there the chair is in nowhere..and as I ponder on this..
I think of a kiss that I stole long ago..In the old railway shed where the older girl led me and fed me her lips.
I can feel my mind slipping away..late at night as I wait for the forthcoming day..it's okay.
Sat in my chair I just go with the flow, wherever it is that my mind wants to go..
I go too.