town of the wretched

work in progress, constructive criticism always welcome

It is again three in the morning at the clinic

For madmen,

And the phone rings, welding the rust

Of the night.

It is, perhaps, always in the middle of darkness

that noises come sparking.

Spark.

Spark.

Spark.

 

As if they know, deep down I am corroded

And in desperate need of repair.

 

Not in a grandiose way.

Un-learn crying for little things.

Be honest when I get more change by mistake.

Find out how to talk to my father

And teach myself how to play an instrument,

Not because it is character-bettering

But because I’ve said too often I know how to.

Keep in mind what I’ve said I can play and

Not tell different people different things.

 

 

As I said, I am in desperate need of repair.

No, not in a grandiose way.

 

The phone rings

And its sound ricochets from the half-lit window,

Crawls down the curtains and up the squeaking bed,

It reaches the chair where I have been waiting

Till three in the morning at the clinic for madmen.

Tidally accurate, I tell myself, Josephine swims her

Way back.

‘I can’t sleep’ she says calmly and I am relieved.

Not the only one who can’t.

 

She has two skulls instead of one in her head. That’s what

I take from her laced, monotone story. She is frightened to death,

Mostly at night and resists madness, she says.

It shouts at her, that second immigrant skull, it crowds her,

makes her over-weight and thank-god she has my number

to call so I could silence its voice

and she can finally sleep.

 

Her record in the drawer

doesn’t indicate whether she’s had a dull

Husband to cheat on

Or children who need braces, no relatives,

No Sunday-visit flowers to wither till Wednesday.

I could never love her either, I tell myself.

If she would beg me to hammer it out, that émigré skull,

out of compassion or sympathy, not even for her

but myself and my need of five hours sleep,

I would probably hang up

With no guilt.

A measure for love, I suppose,

A vase next to the bed and willingness

To kill

Mercifully.

 

Yet, I am there, at three in the morning,

The late-night shift, fifth time in a row,

Josephine talking, distantly melancholic.

It must be the drizzle,

I tell myself,

Too quiet for deadening skulls.

Out there, dogs bark in the claim

Of a territory, unfed,

Wounded,

Unloved.

Town of the wretched!

I am awake,

The tea was already prepared

And I drink loudly,

Burning my tongue.

 

She regrets her two skulls, she tells me,

Not much deciphering needed. She regrets by

Disowning them. One of them is too much,

‘Too much’, she says, ‘and I would

Prefer to be alone’.

Some nights she goes without medicine,

Most nights not, understandably,

Although I did once deceive her

There is plenty of space in a human head.

 

The truth is I envy her,

Mad Josephine K., and her condition

Of crowdedness.

It crawls somewhere within.

 I, personally, feel crowded only in a

Hurry,

down the swarming street,

 which takes me

Not more than ten minutes. Then I’ve reached

Work.

 

I envy her. Mad Josephine K.

Most probably also for my own existence.

Her mid-night light tower, her haven,

And she can’t even differentiate dogs

Barking and voices in her head.

I envy her calmness, the fact

That if I don’t turn up at work,

She would replace me easily.

I envy even the idea she craves

To be alone.

 

How more alone could one be?

No dull husband, no children,

No flowers next to her bed.

 

 

and yet not a smidgen of loneliness!

 

It is three in the morning at the clinic

For madmen,

It is drizzling,

And Josephine talking distantly melancholic.

Perhaps is the drizzle, perhaps it is the barking,

But I feel warm, I feel fed and unwounded

and I wouldn’t be

Anywhere else.

 

 

 

Reviews

[Glen Yumang Manese]

It is again three in the morning at the clinic
For madmen,
And the phone rings, welding the rust
Of the night.
It is, perhaps, always in the middle of darkness
that noises come sparking.
Spark.
Spark.
Spark.

you start us with the beginning and then take us back again in the same manner in the lines...

It is three in the morning at the clinic
For madmen,
It is drizzling,
And Josephine talking distantly melancholic.
Perhaps is the drizzle, perhaps it is the barking,
But I feel warm, I feel fed and not wounded
and I wouldn’t be
Anywhere else.

like the lapse of time is always at 3 a.m. in the morning...and you fill in the rest with what is going on in the narrative as time passes...of this verse...