Sporadic Report From Cellar Twelve #5

Too slow to move, to win
Cogs seized up, eyes grimed over
Skin blotchy, hands shaking
Sitting in the dark out of the sun
Wonder what it feels like to run
I am a slow machine these days
Don't have much energy to take me further
Than the centre of the room of discarded desire
It doesn't cost much to exist
But most people won't just settle for that
This is me talking from another planet
I stepped off yours some time ago
I won't be back for a good while yet if at all
No talking outside of this cellar
The junk piles up, a hoarder
and silent dweller in disorder
I don't care but I do care
This used to be a neat little retreat
Now it's a box to barely breathe in
Too slow to move, I stare at twisted technology
And wonder how it ever got the better of me
Tied to the machine awaiting an impulse
How did it get to be like this?
Of course I could be lying
There is a little part of me dying
If I come up for air, I'm somewhat diminished
I never wanted the limelight, never wanted to try
Well, maybe that's another lie
I remember saying something like it must be nice to earn a wage
just for being yourself: musicians, artists, comedians
It's all a joke - Mr Hicks said it was just a ride
If I take a long ride it will exhaust me
Not long before I'd need to alight into a solitary night
and listen to the wind outside
The occasional car going by
Not having to worry too much about tomorrow
Sometimes having been so slow
I lie awake at night and my brain says Go - go now, anywhere
But right now, I just don't care
Just making it to the end of this moment is an achievement
Sporadic Report From Cellar twelve number five
Reminds me of the words of a song called Failure
About not deserving to be down here
But sometimes it feels like a gift, a luxury
Perched at the edge of a packing crate there's a dusty
Old telephone with a greasy cord
There's a solitary chair with a broken back
A typewriter and a pile of ancient papers
A basket with a white plastic bag spread over its rim
To catch the debris when it falls from these hands
My fingers hurt
I sit fermenting in my stale grey workshirt
Breathing out stale woe
Done it so long now it's pretty much all I know how to do with any success
But I digress - I'm slow today
Can barely make it to the sink in the corner
My teeth hurt, my back aches, both wrists on the way out
This is all you have to make a song and dance about
If you you choose to abstain from the game
It's all a game, a ride - and I got off... 7.47pm

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