Clowntime
You haven’t been yourself,
she says. So who have I been?
Perhaps the creature who hides
behind my back and turns
when I turn, so I never
glimpse him but know he’s
always there. You, of course,
neither know nor care
for this wild screaming boy,
who would shoot out the moon
and blind the sun’s eye
for a bet. No wonder then,
that when my wild shadow
shows himself you find him
mute and strange, beating odd tattoos
with his claws on cold,
broken earth. And if he could speak
what would he say but
I haven’t been myself
for some time?
Time Out
It’s hard work
being out of your mind:
all those words
tugging on your tongue
as though all your past lives have
re-incarnated into your skull,
and all of them have
too much to say
in too many languages
no-one speaks anymore.
Better here, drugged out
on the bench watching a game
that’s nothing more than
grown-ups playing at
being kids again; remembering
a time when everything mattered
but none of it was your fault,
when you could walk home
swinging your bat, telling yourself
you’ll laugh at this when
you’re sad and old, when dreaming
is just another way
of kidding yourself that you’re
really quite sane; it’s just
the world that’s mad as a mouse
chasing a cat to steal
back cheese. Don’t they
set traps for that?
Ian Mullins
Bindweed Magazine 