Ordinary Person

1

I should have invested 

in the electric car industry,  

made a profit  

and opened a restaurant, 

hired a fantastic chef  

with his team  

of ambitious sous-chefs, 

earning one Michelin Star 

for its Tandoori Foie Gras, 

two, for its deconstructed  

Octopus Biryani  

and three, for its 

Flavours of India — 

A culinary experience 

that makes Blumenthal’s  

The Sound of the Sea  

seem like Pav Bhaji  

that a chaiwala makes  

next to a cheap thrift store. 

2

But here I am/ wandering meandering streets/ the sharp, acidic rain eliciting an anti-hallelujah/ turning round and round like a carousel on speed/ the motion making me sick/ evoking inner Chernobyl/ feverish depression/ the gongs of doom/ the madmen of the apocalypse/ doomsday prophets/ psychotic neophytes/ distorted shadows on the wall threatening to commit violent acts/ the murderous rage of a bigot humiliated/ the gloomy jazz of Povarovo playing Mullholand Dr. with their despondent violins/ hypnotic slow beat/ mesmeric, eerie, atmospheric, harrowing, haunting sounds/ I can’t take it anymore! Save me! Forgive me! I’m not repentant but I need lucidity/ not sibylline predictions of a poor prognosis/ the screeching guitar becoming a faux-minimalist, anti-Einuadic rendition of crime and punishment. 

3

*Breathes a sigh of relief* 

*Inhales* 

4

Everything must be arranged and neat, 

The balcony chair in its proper place,

The cheese and slices of red meat,  

The flowers and the decorative vase. 

5

I should have walked

the streets of Rome, 

soaked in the Colosseum at dusk,  

the golden-brown like burnt copper, 

the chipped-off edge

like a limestone shard 

pointing to heaven

which doesn’t fascinate me. 

After all, the stars are everywhere  

and the sky is blue. 

I should have beheld the Pantheon 

with its sturdy, masculine concrete  

without talk of muses and poetic throes, 

just the clicking and posting of pictures 

with a brunette who’s a ten.  

6

I’m stepping on thorns now/ penance for a mind saturated with Olds and her taboo odes/ Pound’s call to ‘make it new,’/ Roth with his frenzied prose, talking of a man becoming a breast/Portnoy’s complaint/ the need to stay religious while scrolling through images of naked women/ a bitter conflict between scruples and salaciousness/ making me the saucy clergyman/ the prudish degenerate/ quiet psychosis tugging me towards Mickey Sabbath’s corruption and decadence/ raging reservations making this rabbit not run/ Stay Rabbit Stay/ no point in midlife-crises and escapism, and dealing with the neighbourhood pastor/ the mongrels chase me, baring menacing teeth/ the drops of saliva like poisonous dew evoking Donald Ray Pollock and Frank Bill/ trashy but poignant/ meth and madness/ fists thrown and parochial craziness/ I can’t stop! Even though the night chills my bones/ the traffic unsettles me like a macabre horror movie replete with knife wielders and maniacs/ they’re coming for me, I know/ rushing to anaesthetise me/ bind me/ toss me in an institution where I’ll spend my days talking of Plath’s villanelle, Mad Girl’s Love Song with some other crazy-not crazy fellow who feels like a pair of scuttling claws, cooked in a spicy broth while the Gregor Samsas occupy too much space/ I’ll say the gulf war never happened while justifying hadephobia/ a snotty, white-robed ‘prophet of light’ looking on with pills and a syringe/ nodding her head. 

7

*Exhales* 

*Feels a profound sadness* 

8

Everything must be unnaturally clean, 

Even though it’s only me who’s looking on; 

Arrange the tables or I’ll become so mean;

I want no cracks, dents or a dirty john.  

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash