I'M GOING BLIND

Shot Buck and ate his leg.

Dead wasps on the window-sill. A brass statue of a cat.

Tiny orange figurines made from ear-wax, furred with grey mould.

In the waiting-room freshly-bandaged mummies sit reading Womans Own.

Plastic chairs and swollen lymph-glands. Paratroopers caught in a tree. The doctor says it’s venereal quicksilver. Gives me a leaflet explaining the symptoms. First your eyes go all vague and milky like old glass marbles, he says, sniffing his finger. Then you start to crave your own shit. Nothing to be ashamed of, he tells me. Most people get it, oh, at least once in their lives.

The nurse uses a small hook to remove loose brain-tissue through her nose. Then they embalm her. “Did you see that bloke on the telly last night? You know, old whatshisname. He’s bloody funny, he is. Cracked me up.”

White latex mouthpiece and a bucket over my head. Harmonicas for eyes. I’m pretending to be a robot.

Lost in the greasy shadows with Sparky. We surface for air inside the hollow porcelain towers. An uneasy rumour spreads amongst a colony of glowing artists. On the side of the bus is a large mural painted in purple dung.

I hear voices all the time now. Squeaking falsetto vocals over a broken banjo.

An erased opera featuring Kenny Ink.

Entitled: “I’m Going Blind.”