Disquiet: Prose Poem
Wednesday Prose Poem: talk to yourself
“Uh, hello? Mr Harms? This is the Head. Calling to let you know that another — yes, one more, we think — dissociation sequence will be starting shortly. Yes, shortly. Prepare…yourself. We just thought you’d like to, uh — ”’
What? Know? Know what — ah, it’s here again
the frame disintegrates, becomes something pure Barker — a SCENE, yes, a scene of the noise that shakes and rattles and rumbles, the energy already sore, sore from being awake at night, early morning, no — crime? — well, maybe the violence done in the head precludes the next sensation of lack of awareness —
how do you…how do I get out of this? — the noise goes on, and, like a bad drink that still gets you drunk so you don’t put it down, no —
there’s something else — some critical part of the human lost in his mind, her mind, and the body is displaced — like a blanket of individual threads, piled up but not really warm— put up into a shelf where it doesn’t belong, doesn’t come down to be read — or just infrequently — the time for roving up and down the street, looking for better beer, less-soured wine —
“The Head, again. Sorry to tell you, Sir, it looks like it’ll be a while longer. Yet — uh, well, you know we’re all suffering with you here, yeah? I…
