Minutes

The nausea rises up in me.
Like the lift.
Every ten minutes.
Up and down.
Sickness comes and goes.
In my throat.
In my guts.
I try and swallow.
Hold my face.
Don’t come in. Don’t come in.
But every line.
Around my mouth.
Around my head.
Is noted observed contained measured.
I go out.
For forty minutes.
They walk by my side.
I pull up my shades.
Put down my head.
Cherish the beach inside.
Let my toes fall into the sea.
Not the rancid puddle around the bath.
The one which makes me smell strange.
Not me.
Eight people collecting on my skin.
Not able to wash up.
Wash off.
Sinking in.
Absorbing into me.
I prickle with every minute.
Every minute of discomfort.
Forty.
Ten.
Twenty three.
Six.
I swallow water.
Like thoughts.
These are the minutes of my meeting.
There is no guarantee I will leave room 23.
There is no guarantee that it will leave me.

Plan B

We flop around on the gym mats like psychotic kippers. The mats are the same colour as the plastic beakers. Blue and yellow. From a shop that doesn’t sell edges. I roll my body left and right. My body. Rolling. Moving. Turning. Against the tide of my head runrunrun There is a piece of metal on the concrete yard. I pace. It is a test. Like the window. The one they said I couldn’t open. The one I pushed and sucked in air from. Not so secure. Secured. The lift takes us up and down. Up and down. Bodies up and down. Every ten minutes. Minds left behind. Mine is floating somewhere around the window of room 23. Some parts still roam the beige place. I can’t catch it. My mind. I can’t pin it down. Minutes pass in groups of ten. Plans forgotten between floors. Pull the wires from the magnets. Climb up the tree. Bestride the fence. Wait for the click click on the doors push run run. Room 23 is breaking me down. Crumbling me up. I am constituent parts. Legs. Arms. Head. My body flops around on the mat. Not quite connected. The yellow and blue sponge cushions the blow of my landing. My name remains absent from the board. I am not allocated. Located. I am flopping around like a kipper. Barely able to hold onto a plan. Rolling back and forth. Between A and B. And nothing.

Room 23

I live in room 23.
I exist in room 23.
I am in room 23.
Room 23 is occupied.
Room 23 is where I am.
Room 23 is empty of me.
Each minute yawns around room 23.
My self dulls every minute spent in room 23.
Room 23 consumes me.
Room 23 is devouring my mind.
Room 23 has nothing to do with me.
J races from room 23.
She runs and runs
In tiny tiny circles
Think carefully
Get out
Don’t get stuck in room 23.
J will not let room 23 destroy her.
J will unlock herself from room 23.
J will not look back when she reclaims herself as Jae
When she runs and runs from room 23.

Secure

The smell of piss lingers on my shirt sleeves. The last doses of powder seeping out. Measured. Observed. Contained. I look around. At the tattoo messages. Nestled in troubled flesh. All these careful years spent twisting myself up in knots. In nets. A cryptic implosion. Perhaps I could have spoken more softly upon myself. To say. To tell. Here. Here. The stories are neatly written in ink. Spaced out in time lines. On skin. In noises. In heads held in hands. In blood left on curtains. Curtains that don’t cover the window. In a place that never gets dark. But is so dark. There are houses. Outside the windows. I can see people inside. Eating. Sitting. Being. And I would like to have a minute back. A breath to locate who I was. Where I was. What I was. I would like to stretch and trace my fingers over the maps. The papers. Just to see. Just to have a little view. To find. To secure. My location securesecuresecure I am lost without my nets. I cannot anchor my feet on the dirty blue carpet. I cannot see my blue bag or the hundred little bags. All the bags are gone. Out of sight. Not in my hands. I sit. In a room where it will never be quiet. In a room where electricity is drowned by the sound of existence. An uneasy place of being. Perhaps there is nothing I can do but look. Today I can wash my shirt. At six pm. I will pull it from the water. Dry it and hold it. Smell the clean cotton on my skin. I will try another day.

A Note From Jae

Just a line to say that Jae is off to the sanatorium for a short while.

Thank you to all who take the time to visit. For all your support and comments and continued readership.

I hope to have some internet access but I may not be able to post..or reply to comments..or read your own postings..quite as often as I do..or would like to..

I will be thinking of you..and hope to be lurking around on the blogosphere..somewhere..somehow..

Thank you..

Jae

Hole In My Head

There is a hole in the back of my head. I try to brush it out. But it won’t go. It reminds me of my mother. I look in the mirror. I am not them. Her. Her sin of omission. My hands fumble. Try and match packet to powder. Stain to incident. I have this feeling. I can’t name it. It won’t go. To try and pack it up. Throw it away. Is futile. It will follow me. And follow me. Until time is up. Time is up. My head jerks. Down. To my chin. So heavy I can’t keep looking straight. To line up the scissors. To cover up. To forget. But it won’t forget. The clocks I tried to stop. They are tripping and falling. Going backwards and forwards. Tricking me. Tripping me. Testing me. I put on the little denim jacket. The one with lots of pockets. For things. Deposits. Reminders. Me. A trail of blood spots from pocket to pocket. Sleeve to cuff. Neck to chest. I wipe my fingers over them. Trying to do the jigsaw. Match the pieces. Come up with a picture. It hurts. The dark glasses ease it. Things. I slip them on. Whenever she comes back. Whenever there is a mirror. Whenever I find a hole in my head that won’t brush away.

Calling Time

I will turn off the clocks. Call time on this world. I line up a hundred clear bags. Little bags that will go inside the big blue bag. Particles. Pieces of time here. Trapped. dustpowderwords.you. They lie like a broken jigsaw on the floor. A puzzle. I am not sure what the picture will be when all is done. When all the little bags fit inside the big bag and they. I. Am removed. Recovered. 400 days in this place and I finally make noise. I can only say. I am here. When I know I am going. Moving. A little move. A shift. I gently fight the feet on my head. The static below. With the sound of me. A choking noise of what is left. I do not want to return to this place. I do not want to return. I will pack the ruby slippers. They will take me some place good. When the time is right. When I am right. I try not to feel. I try to measure my movement. Slow down time. Speed it up. Anything just to keep the bags open. Keep my hands filling them. It is strange inside. A sensation that I cannot name. A feeling I vaguely recall from when I was. There are tiny moments. Clicks of the second hand. When I see the nets I have caught myself up in. When I smell them. Tomorrow the thread of nets will pulled from me. Untangled and disposed. I will sit. I will keep my face still. I will apologise. For the smell. For me. Maybe the purple will fade. The red and yellow flow away like water. In a few days days. I will turn off the clocks. They will rest. I will call time on this world.

White and Gold

The white and gold sing. The light behind them spilling onto my knees as I observe a silence. Watch the water pour upon your head. Watch your lips change. Not smile. Just change. It is funny. How my heart is still. How it catches me up at 3am then leaves me in peace. To gather the pieces. To gather the pieces. To dull the purple in my foot. The red and yellow. So much time gone. I disappeared amidst it. Not quite eroded. Not quite gone. And I am tired. So very tired. But soon. Very soon. Maybe the white and gold will be in my fingers. Fingers bent and crooked from rust. St Peter will come. Take my hand and pour cool water over my hair. My temples. And the familiar smell. The familiar ooze. The dust. The powder. Will be left aside. For a short time. For a moment. I fill myself up with white and gold. Gather as much light as I can to move me from this seat. I will trust myself. I will trust myself. Like Simon Peter. I will fish inside. For the pieces left. The pieces left. Are they the light that fall upon my knees. White and Gold. Quietly singing. Remembering my voice.

Do Not Disturb

The phone hurts. More than the purple on my foot. More than the red and yellow. I would like to pull the wires. But if I pull the wires the door shakes. And the door hurts more than the phone. Funny. How you can be nothing. But pursued. Like there’s no tomorrow. So I will answer. I will put on the clean trousers. The ironed shirt. I will answer. The questions. I will be everything you need to me to be. Then I will close the door. Kiss the wedge. Breathe in the silence. The wonder of being nothing. Sink into Alice. Love her (no one believes I can love). I thought I had covered all bases. Doused my body. Do not disturb. But still people. Strangers. Knock. Ring. Disturb. And I want nothing. And I am nothing. And I want to finish breaking the phone. Crumble the plastic. Eat it. It is only a matter of days now. When Alice will be taken from me. When you will be taken away with her. When the gun and the cupboard becomes a smile. And a thank you for your help. You knew. Didn’t you. When you carried my bags. You knew. And I can’t swallow at that thought. That you knew. I have the same bags. There is more dust on them now. They are more worn from the powder. And I can’t carry them because I am worn from the powder. I am more worn from the powder. The powder you gave me like birthday cakes. And I wish you were here. And I wish you weren’t in Alice. I wish we were still pulling each other’s skin in the cupboard. Leaving bruises. Hurt. Like cold feet. Hurt. Like hunger. Hurt. We love and chase. Like rabbit. And I wish more than anything that I could be left alone with you. That I will no longer be disturbed. Like there’s no tomorrow.