Three Poems by Ford Dagenham

AT 38

i am a stranger to myself
tired and drawn and stubbly and old-
my age ENORMOUS

like i landed suddenly in my future

enormous alien hands
clutching
the
maintenance meccanno of the soft machine.

working again
in
the hospital.  all my clothes are too big now.

he’s looking at me from behind deep glass
in
the
dark
light
of
a service lift mirror.

HELLO YOU i am saying.



WITHHOLDING MOON

all this/the drunk rubbish/the drugs and whatever
this
is
what
i do
in
the mystery of it all
under light night skies of silence and diamond
when
it all feels glorious and like there’s answers just in front of
us
in the dark sky – just there



BREAKINGDOWN 

those bleak mornings SHIT!
those 3 AMs when i held the dread inside me
as still as i could
with a balled up pillow.
those panic steps to the toilet bowl FUCK!
and
those nights JESUS! – the stale tv/pointless books/nothing for me/even music MUSIC! was irritating and trivial.
those morning dew fields like holograms in the science museum
and
the sunrise views like they’re
painted
on
a
flat wall.

those forced Saturdays going out anywhere at all
with all the cigarettes all the time.
all
those slow steps thru CGI nature 1000 miles away.
the world so solid and heavy on my soles pushing up!
and
those cold Sundays MY GOD!
they
wouldn’t end
and
never started.

that frozen up white noise in my head – couldn’t think
so
i
ran . . . tears hidden in sweat.

those moments CHRIST - those moments
when
FUCK ME!

i
was
sure
i’d
lost my mind.