Paralysing Nightmares


The classic heartbeat of bah boom, bah boom, bah boom to which I have been accustomed to for so long, is no more.  The once deep and steady war -like drumbeat – that normally would resound defiantly against my breastbone – has been replaced by a pathetic lone serpent’s hiss.

It exhales a long saddened wheeze, hoarsely begging its neighbours – my lungs – for a cup of sweet air to propel what seems like diseased blood around my broken body. 

Perhaps if my heart were to experience love again,
Conceivably, it could cease to be deficient,
The cardiac muscles would regain their composure,
Formerly erratic, they once again become efficient.

Strange emotions accompany this festival of the forlorn red and white and blood cell. The imagery makes me dizzy.  The gaudy carousels spin too fast. Garish balloons burst as I walk past them, exposing my pupils to their vivid colours.  They dilate and translate my angst.  Eyelids flutter like a butterfly in mid seizure.  I am not in a good place.

Where are the cool eye masks then?  I want to wear one and eat chalky pills indented with super models washed down with cold Brazilian beer.  I wish to stave off this rumour called reality.  Is it wrong to bathe my eyes in cool blue gel and trip out in pure ecstasy?  Let me embellish my thoughts with Arabic chanting then.  Let a symphony of croaked enchantment build and build and build, until finally an ancient monument of dread looms tall, casting its shadows of hopeless wonder all over this wretched yet beautiful land.

I read some depressing words today.  The character repeated that he was born dead, over and over and over and over again.  How does he know this, I ask?  On that basis, should I therefore cut myself, should I spill my warm crimson yolk to see if I am still alive or is that the wrong way to do it, man?  I wish I could ask him, but the pages only tell me what they want to tell me.

Eyes flicker open and I am awake.  I am still not in a good place, man.

Tomas Bird