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a poem by Rhys Milsom
Leech
It is a foetus
Growing, throbbing,
Pressing against the inside
Of the skull
A constant presence
A reminder, an enemy,
It survives off you
Like a leech.
Sneering and hateful:
Its tiny mouth with its piranha teeth
Stabbing, tearing, snapping at the brain.
Scissor-like.
You wait for it to go,
Plead with it
But it is nasty, arrogant
And it stays
Until you get home,
Wine bottles on the counter, the red
Circles dried and stale, imprinted
Like a tattoo, spots flecked
On the wall, floor, cupboards
Like a Dalmatian's markings
Random, careless and a sign of life
A sign that you were here, happy.
The angry red a rebel against
The sterile,
Synthetic
World you stand in.
It is still there, gnawing, merciless
And it has won because
You pour a glass, disconnect
Everything and close the windows
Close the doors and
Turn the lights off, sit there
With the glass and
Feed the leech.
Silence, darkness, the tick
Of the clock and your breathing.
Two things in the world
That are a sign of life.
Growing, throbbing,
Pressing against the inside
Of the skull
A reminder, an enemy,
It survives off you
Like a leech.
Its tiny mouth with its piranha teeth
Stabbing, tearing, snapping at the brain.
Scissor-like.
Plead with it
But it is nasty, arrogant
And it stays
Wine bottles on the counter, the red
Circles dried and stale, imprinted
Like a tattoo, spots flecked
Like a Dalmatian's markings
Random, careless and a sign of life
A sign that you were here, happy.
The sterile,
Synthetic
World you stand in.
And it has won because
You pour a glass, disconnect
Everything and close the windows
Turn the lights off, sit there
With the glass and
Feed the leech.
Silence, darkness, the tick
Of the clock and your breathing.
Two things in the world
That are a sign of life.
© by Rhys Milsom
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #18 ~ November 2011
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