No-One's Reborn In The Spring (A Gin Song)

Finding myself without poetry, prose or anything else of worth written in the past several months, I'm drawn back to something I wrote in July, when, to my credit, I knew it; it followed a joyously positive night, and a morning where I tried vainly to hang on to that particular exuberance;

I'm really dead
But my body forgot
And my mind is
Six feet under your boots
And waiting and
Impassive.

(Wishful thinking, cunt)


Yes, so it transpired during my dissociative fantasies, before the grand epiphany, the realisation that I really am connected to this skinny corpse, and I'm no happier about it now, having considered it, than I was back in the old days, however long ago it might have been, the last time I felt connected to my body. I hope it either passes or I find a new body. A new mind would suffice, I suppose.

Please do look out for my sober, or at least non-gin drunk de facto denial of this shite. Truth be told, it was written by the fourteen year old, smooth-skinned, slack-sphinctered boywhore down the street. I really ought to have credited him; fuck it; he's hardly in a position to sue.

Later Reference the Bones of a Cat.

Simón was sharply interrupted, he had long since been an admirer of the sea and he often sat in a similar spot to the one he was in now to confirm that. As a cat he didn’t feel obliged to do anything, he just marvelled at the ripples and eulogized that tide until he was sure the sea would’ve seen him, whatever the weather. Now, for example, was tempestuous, to say the least: the rain was driving and the wind riproared through his whiskers. Dusk might’ve been two shades away but it was hard to tell, as the darkness hadn’t left all day. After staring at the sea for so much Simón really had become familiar with it, he could never remember each lilt or twist and expect it to be there next time, (that was part of his love of the thing) but he would recognize an oddness.
And that’s how he was interrupted and exactly what he had done. Simón had spotted a glint, a small glint just glowing through the sea and the sea had never had one of those before. He watched a little longer, his eyes bleating in the rain. ‘What could possibly make a glint just glowing through the sea?’: a bonfire for the barnacles, the bright lights of a pirates plight or a vigil, perhaps. The wind convinced Simón not to investigate just now even though he could think of little else.
“Sleep and dream”, it moaned, “sleep and dream.”
The next day the storm hadn’t gone home and Simón hurried his breakfast to see if he could still find the glint. With a squint passed the rock that looked only a little like Ecuador he spied it, still gleaming ‘gainst the unusually darkened sky. The wind pushed him back and the sea rioted. No conditions for investigating. Simón had to quell his interest. For the next two days he observed the glint and the waters ran amok.
[Welling turned to necessity and a splash of desperation.] Simón found the third day had gotten the better of him so he edged down towards the shore, eyes focussed on the glint. The sea was still raging. He stood feet facing the tides. He had to know what was making that glint. What was needed was a closer look. Walking right to the border of the water he peered towards it - a gust blustered his coat – but he still couldn’t find the answer. Rolling up his trousers he waded a little way in to the sea, it’s cold love was just as unwelcoming. Closer. The water went passed his knees and skirted his middle yet telling what the glint was was still impossible. Chest. Neck. No answer. The waves slashed his face and fired his temper; he didn’t know how to turn back anymore, not until he had the answer. He lifted his feet from the kelp of the beds and swam a little towards the glint. Closer. Further. And far less safe, a step too far for spangle’s sake. The currents overthrew him, outnumbered but the glint was just a dozen strokes away he mayswell take the risk. Still no clearer image, he was nearly at its source. Just below the water it should’ve closed a hundred hearts. It wasn’t the gold or glory, he just had to know its cause.
Now peering for that answer the murk beneath his eager paddling paws, he paused. The glint grew brighter, larger, consuming the once murky sea beneath Simón. As he beheld what he’d been waiting for.
Now he knew what was making that glint.
It was the eye of a whale.
“Finally I know.” he gasped as he broke inside the belly of the answer.