William Orr

What's Going On? 2nd November 2004

My hands are falling off
Got a lump of coal in my side
My head is bent forward almost kissing the page.

Around me people are scribbling
Inside me food is moving
The radiators are humming
The lights are glaring.

David Hart is coughing
My cold simmers
The traffic rumbles
The wind gases on.

The pads are on the tables
The bags are on the floor
Our glasses are on our noses
Our clothes cling to our bodies.

The clock grins on the wall
Its hands are on the march
The sun shines on the States
The world awaits its news.

Fireworks whistle and pop
Fingers brush the pages
Ink tattoos the lines
Lines form on our faces.

Biros hobble like sticks
In the grip of blind men
Finding their way in the gloom
The dim lanes of our thoughts.

Blood percolates my brain
Breath pulsates like the sea
Eyelids snap like cameras
My heart's a quivering fish.

The clock climbs up to eight
The time for tea and talk
Fat ducks guffaw outside
The hour is feeling old.

Shadows dance the page
My hand's a weary beast
In the moment's hushed rage
We have the page at least.