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Currajah (news & notes)

             MARTIN R. JOHNSON

     I'm here and here I am

 

 

               seeing the insides of a house

               I've never seen before we go

               to live in a town without streets with lips

               that scream My life's fucked-up

               so I'm fucking-up yours.

 

               Some hands going as far

               as prison on a murder charge.

               Failed and successful attempts

               at suicide.

               Knuckles feeling the warmth

               of a woman's mouth.

 

               I have a callous on my heart

               twenty years thick. And my compassion's

               so thin you could see your hand

               through it. My patience is

               an expired parking meter with

               the slot covered in bird shit.

 

               I'm here but here I am

               in my new house

               in a different street

               in a different time

               in a different town

               a different man.

 

              Don't hang up if I seem

              a little vague.

              Worry too much if I don't get out

              the biscuits. Forget to sugar your tea.

              Appear to be lost in the shadows

              as I walk you to your car.

 

              I'm getting out.

              I'm on my way.

              Living in rooms I still haven't seen.

 

              What a reunion that'll be!

              Who I've become a little shocked

              by who I am when I move in.