Wednesday, September 1, 2010

At seven, the sun that lit my world blew out
Leaving me only mist. Through which I probed
My way to school, guessed wildly at the sums
whose marks on the board I couldn't even see.

They wanted to send me away to a special school.
I refused, and coped as best I could with half
The light lost in the mist, screwing my tears
Into my work, my gritted teeth, my writing -

Which crawled along and writhed. Think thoughts at will,
None of it comes across. Even now friends ask
'How do you read that scrawl?' the fact is, I don't;
Nobody could. I guess. But how would you

Like my world where parallels actually join in,
perspectives vary at sight. Once in a pub
I walked towards a sign marked gents over
A grating and crashed through the floor

Well, it looked alright to me. Those steep stairs
People told me pf later flattened to lines
In my half-world. The rest imagination
Supplied: when you're half a live you extend it.

The lenses drag their framework down my nose,
I still can't look strangers in the face,
Wilting behind a wall of glass at them.
It makes me look shifty at interviews.

I wake up with a headache, shew all day
Aspirins, go to bed dispirited,
Still with a dull pain somewhere in my skull,
And sleep.
Then, in my dreams, the sun comes out.

The Astigmatic by Philip Hobsbaum.

How do people phantom such heart breaking things.

so, if I wished, I could follow you 9:50 PM