by John Grey.
out walking,
plagued by two fears
that the next one who passes me
will jag my eyes out
with long sharp claws
or that a life-size doll
made of white steel
will leap out of the beauty shop
the tension is so atom-splitting
I hold together by
imagining I’m pushing
a body wagon from the plague
that I’m daring suicides
to dive from windows
plop onto the top
of my hill of corpses
while the sickening stench
gazes up at my dull pupils
and the whole of the leprous world
is clutching tight to me
elbow to jostling elbow
sweat to sweat vomit to vomit
out walking
I shudder –
anyone could do anything
the only relief
is if I’m the one doing it