I used to joke that I never felt anxious
once I was on stage.
When I'm performing, everything becomes
a fixed variable. There'll be a mic,
kind of near my face,
an audience
somewhere in front of me.
Often, I'll put a stool to my left so
I can put a glass of water on it.
Too often these days, I don't make it
out of bed. I don't know if I should
call my bookie and tell them I have
bedhead, that I couldn't comb my hair right,
my Frankensteinian screws just wouldn't take,
I caught my hand between two sheets, and
I'm sorry Jimmy. Not tonight.
Sometimes my depression and I
play peekaboo,
Play at ignoring our object permanence;
lie, like the sheets are the edges
and we are playing
shadow puppets,
laughing, laughing
with one another like
We are still children, and the world
has not touched us yet.
It is a strange thing how we become
accustomed to space.
Perhaps the edges of my bed are
a stage, and perhaps I can
play at being all kinds
of people while I am
here, perhaps
I could be a president, no.
I don't think I would like that, my hair
will soon go grey already.
Perhaps I could pretend to be a
football player so when my legs run in
the night I am just practising,
maybe I am a wrestler,
I know I don't look
the part yet,
but maybe that's why
I thrash and fight it's all in good fun.
Sometimes my sheets are haunted.
Inlaid with the
of ghosts, and memories, and
I think ghosts might be
pretty scary, but
it's worst when
your recognise them, like
You can't tell if you subconscious mind
is trying to find an answer to grief,
or to solve a jigsaw puzzle
without a part that
you gave away
to someone kind, or
someone that smiled to you, and
the worst thing about grieving
is looking at yourself and
asking yourself about
all these things
you might have been if
If is the most awful word in the English
language. If, conditional, such that
the variable, you; might change
something, anything really.
I am haunted by what ifs.
Some nights they look like you, but
some nights they look like me.
Some nights it is like you and I are standing
ankle deep in a pool of memories, and
we are holding hands looking for
how we got here, or any clue
to what happens next;
listen. That,
that is still you finding answers.
Some nights it is like you and I are standing
ankle deep in a pool of memories, except
some nights you are not there, and
there is no one holding my hand,
or yours, and the pool was
deeper than I ever
realised and I am drowning in it.
I am drowning in it, thrashing like
my eyes are closed and I do not know
which way is up and I wonder
some times whether
nightmares are
your brain problem solving
worst case scenarios so when
it comes up, which it hopefully
never will, your brain has
an answer ready, and
that's all well and good, but
it would be nice if brain
asked first, and I am
drowning in ankle deep memories.
When I was little, I nearly drowned.
I forget the specifics of how
I got myself into such a misadventure.
Still, I remember it being dark,
and being afraid, and
being alone.
I remember letting go of of half held breath,
opening my eyes and following the bubbles
to the surface; as if a dream.
Open your eyes. To your left,
somewhere over there is a glass of water.
In front of you is an audience, you may
not seem them right now.
In front of you is a microphone.
I don’t tell jokes about never feeling anxious,
anymore.
They feel disingenuous.
Shakespeare wrote that all the world
is a stage. I hope not.
I would hate that.
I could spend a lifetime in the audience though,
and never tire of listening to you.
