on the tenth floor
through two sets of unevenly
swinging doors
down a carpeted hall
the colour of sick
there is a mustard-stained chair
and a desk
laminex and polished woodgrain
they wander about
devouring the days
and the memories
of those who record with a flick
of their calendars
nothing but a flick
out came the eyes
they grew their nails
as dragon's teeth
laid me down to rest
dug their thumbs
put toothpicks through
fed them to the starving
to the right cold storage
rooms full of names
rolls of honour
where experience falls
in cadences lodging in corners
unheard in eddies
unseen in catchments
untouched
where footsteps on marble
conversations alone
days once seen
reverberate reverberate
without resolution or rest
where rifles remember the recoil
when the nightwatchman
has passed
where dogeared binders
spotted with cream and ectoplasm
wait like premonitions
unfulfilled
where table rappings and trumpets
schemes for ethereal reunion
fall like notes from the saxophone tree
into the half-light
and the spiral of the banisters
broke my legs
staked me out
crushed my feet
cracked each toe
split the ankles
drank the marrow
strung me up
for flaying
like driftwood
into splinters
at dawn
they depart in slow pirouettes
along the pencil-line horizon
depart from the lustful jaws of life
exposing them at last
their eyes dimmed
their mouths like graves
TO LET
who will entertain them
these companions to a setting sun
as they browse amongst the cribs
when the nurses are turned
and the changelings
have skirted the cots
a tearing
with pincers at my throat
not even a whisper
just gurgling
just gurgling
a finger a finger
a finger under the door
let me cut if off
days since light
days since light
first touched me
on the tenth floor they gather together
wretched and feeble on creaking floorboards
and gaze at the dawn and hurry away
waiting for another April day
singing
we shall remember us
don't worry
no need at all
we shall remember
About the Creator
Christopher Francis
I began writing as a child, continued as an adult and worked briefly as a professional. Literature and music were and are my passions. Then life got in the way. Now, at 66 they have returned and I am giving them my full attention. Ta da.
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