Category: Poetry

down here is close and stale
and egg-like, my head is
small and tense and tight.
down near by you is
dense with breath filled air,
loud ambience upon my ears.
of what line of fault did
you become to keep me here,
my kept head fears this dark
lit brown – your presence –
I would not see by choice.
sat tucked and tired, my
ear drums ache with dread
for final death, the crumble and
approach that is your voice.

what will I wear,
what shall I wear,
what shall I do with my hair?
I’ll wear my black,
my sweet, and we’ll smoke
’til the smoke comes
out our ears. we will

clamber out of the valley,
climb up the mountain,
my feet will drink the grass
and our breath will evaporate.

you tie a bow
so it sits on your head,
then we’ll dance ’til
the steam rises
from our feet and evaporates.

He peed against the trough
like rain against the roof.
Take me there.
Newspaper cutting walls
and drunken acoustic balls.
Take me anywhere.
She smiled so sweetly
whilst pursing her lips, neatly.
Her head nodded once
and twice, four times,
rotating, my head followed
while my inners swallowed.
The walls nodded; bottles bowed;
the ceiling too; all joined in.
Speak deep – speak in my head,
grind your tones in my throat.
Too hot. Sleeves
too long – cast aside my coat.
Rain down the window
like steam on my showered forehead.
Body odours killed and dead
but still the toilet stinks.
It’s all too dirty – he thinks,
and slams the door out of there.
Take me anywhere.
Bum perched, in training,
she sat, legs curled under the pinning
of her piece of skirt.
Yet who when it’s she
who believes that I’m empty?
I am full of alcohol –
my veins injected pure and full.
She is the original angry young cat
and she hates me!

the movement in my arm from warm
to gradual chilled existence as the
nerves begin to wake and regain sense.
both limbs recapture consciousness as
I again can breath, under flourescence.
lights, above my body, show me tense.
pinned down like an insect but not beautiful,
not similar to a butterfly,
but still, it is of course my own fault.
I should hide and not exist – be numb,
no blood, just dumb, or dead, my curse
that I am made of flesh instead of salt.

little things please little minds
if you can get them up,
if you can find a mouth to fit
your dreams tonight.
chase the length and
breadth of me,
cut the wires in my back,
and waken me tonight.

explosive character – you ruined my night!
I bought you a drink and you went and combusted.
clever tricks like that aren’t perfected overnight,
your love for cabaret has made you lusted.
attention seeker, in death as in life,
as ever, you left ’em crying for more.

don’t look at me,
I’ll only laugh;
you’ll say I’m such a waste.
don’t touch my tongue,
when I say stop,
don’t ask for one more taste.
just one more drop,
you’ll have to stop…
great errors made in haste.

What would you like?
All I can make is tea.
What shall I say – all
I can think is lines of words.
I’ll wash the dishes. You just
sit there and have a drink
while I tidy up this mess –
It saves me having to think.
Did I actually sleep six hours?
Has all that time passed by
like Christmas Eve, and morning
has arrived sudden but awaited.
Fed up with my company
am I now – I can’t think why.
I could go out, I could sleep,
drink, write, cry, die.

Fat Cat’s work is copyright April 1989 S.C Hill
Originally a Rush Job production for Scottsburg Productions.