five o'clock

rebmasters

Five o’clock in the dirty grey morning,
I screamed then cried hard down the phone 
to some disembodied 
voice; not my own, 
not anyone else’s.
Writhing in sheets,
gritting my teeth,
blood pulsing in one localised
place & 
insufferable tight time;
this is when I know I’m alive.
Blinding white walls
or unbearably muted grey;
makes no difference if day
or night
in this cell: eternal, infernal place,
long echoed screams of rage.

Later, I talked to you.
You made me laugh,
though I cried & was bitter,
aching,
jaw tight,
face white,
body screaming
from lack of sleep,
cold cold;
it doesn’t soothe.
Stomach raw, ripped apart
by pain;
a bomb
detonated
somewhere below the heart.
It still beats though;
incessant like the ticking of
an old grandfather clock.

There is blood lost
I think,
yet still
pulsing pulsing;
the pain of life.
Persevere you tell me,
not taking your own advice.
Even clothes hurt;
everything centred
on that bright point
of pinprick pain
over 
& over once again.

If only dreamt of death
was so simple;
there wouldn’t be 
oh so many 
of us still left

  • Author: rebmasters (Offline Offline)
  • Published: August 15th, 2021 02:35
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 29
  • User favorite of this poem: Coyote.
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Comments4

  • Lorna

    Very descriptive anguish.....

    • rebmasters

      Thank you very much 🖤

    • Eugene S.

      A powerful perspective from an incarcerated soul. The despair is so vivid. Well coined.

      • rebmasters

        Thank you - written after reading 'The Death of Artemio Cruz,' which is an incredible, unique & transcendent novel 🖤

      • Coyote

        The anguish pours from every line of this masterful work. Reminds me of Sarte's 'The Wall'. Ninely done.

        • rebmasters

          Thank you my dear. I do love Sartre, Camus, de Beauvoir, Weil... all that lot, but I haven't read 'The Wall' in a long time. I shall have to go back and re-read. I wrote it after reading Carlos Fuentes, who I would highly recommend 🖤

        • Coyote

          The anguish pours from every line of this masterful work. Reminds me of Sarte's 'The Wall'. Ninely done.



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