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Room 11

from Imperfect Pop by David Clune

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lyrics

Room 11

Through a tempest of drips
Breathing machines
And clip charts
My hero bares his nerves
Splits the air
And skips his feet
Beneath the cramped compromise
Of nurses,
With pinkie, berrygloss pipes,
And frail men,
Dark,
Rotting,
Yellow,
Standing stupoured on their feet,
Caught between heaven
And hard linoleum.

Close friends,
And confidants,
One of which am I,
Straggle in,
Apologetic,
And remark,
In gest,
The old blob of cancer
In the neighbouring ward
They spied naked,
Alone,
All mollosc and balls,
Screaming for his mother
By the window
Where by day the golfers whack and amble
And by night the pheasant shrieks.

Amidst a bombard of backslaps
Sex talk
And smut,
My hero holds his council.
Cotton proud,
The uncrowned King of Saint Vincent's
Saint Helen's Ward,
End of the hall.
And there we sit,
Now,
In buttonedup blabbery
Til the convo turns to lungcount
Or weightgain
And how to spend one day's duration
In this temporary holding cell,
Room 11


C. David Clune 2018. All rights reserved.

credits

from Imperfect Pop, released May 30, 2018

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David Clune Dublin, Ireland

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