Quiet

It is said that Englishmen lead lives of quiet despair.

 

My despair is desperate not to be quiet.

Like a mute sage mouthing lost alchemy,

when others see a gibbering fool.

It intrudes, in the background at first.

Then louder : tinnitus of the soul.

It places its bony hands around my English neck.

 

It’s there:

In the depths of my nonchalant gaze.

In the third nightcap.

In between my lines of laughter.

In uncertain seconds lingering by the door.

In my sudden bad temper.

In my armour of disdain.

In the rasp of shrill imitation.

In my grandiose plans.

 

It’s screaming,

knowing you.

Only you,

will hear it,

when even I cannot

amongst the

politeness,

platitudes,

and puns.

 

Buzzing.

Desperate.

Reviews

[Steven Pottle]

"Then louder : tinnitus of the soul.
It places its bony hands around my English neck"

How great are these lines- very Morrissey, very British- all the internal voices, the quiet hidden despair that slowly raises it's ugly hand to take over our lives...fantastic piece!