Hard Times by John Grey

Hard Times
by John Grey

Page One

Got to keep taking anti-histamines.
I’m allergic to bats
and the mites that get in between
the quilt patches.
And I’m a something-or-other-philiac.
Apparently my kidneys
are as useless as emu feathers.
It could be from that tattooist
when he tried to initial my gut.
Besides, I can’t get the smell of fish
out from my armpits.
Doctor wants to do tests
but I’ll need to be scalped first.
That’s sure to limit the number of times
I look in the mirror.
Doctors – they’re just madmen posing as mystics.
And always with the big tease.
“Maybe this will work.”
So I’m spreading cream
across my stomach
and down my recommissioned legs.
And I’m lying in bed
with the curtains closed,
filtering daylight out of my world.
And beginning to realize
that all my passion was merely transitory.
And sexual reflex actions
don’t cut it an more.
I’m self-quarantined.
I’m like a bulb screwed into
the sockets of the sheets,
where the living and dead meet
and can never decide who is who.
I got memories like snails leave trails.
And quotations that dissolve into cuss words.
Who wants company
when you impart
such cold and oiling films,
and the hymns you hum

Page Two

are all to do
with barracudas and buggery.
So what’s to eat?
More breadcrumbs?
How about a wash?
Now where did I put that sponge?
I survey my surrounds.
Unless a spider crawls across the ceiling.
there is never the slightest variation.
I prefer the dark.
That’s where spurious notions go to die.
And I hate the future.
More dreams gone to hell.
More hope vandalized.
What can I say?
Me and the days to come have quite
a history.