J H Martin is from London, England but has no fixed abode. His writing has appeared in a number of places in Asia, Europe and the Americas.
Le Monde
I wake up
But I am dreaming still
Of blood stained walls and claws of bone
Is that what the darkness of
This locked room is for?
This blackness
That lies behind these opiated eyes
Gazing blankly at ghosts of yesterday
That haunt and gnaw my autumn frame
Or is it for that pale blue box?
Inside which these hands will find
Not what they want but what I need
A calm – for now –
Neat and round in yet more pills
And laid out in long strips of silver
Not enough to kill
But enough for now
To smash and maim
Their hell-bound mirror
And all of their unwanted shadows
Of all the deeds I have not forgotten
Of all the things I cannot believe I am
And of all the things I will never be
The ghosts don’t speak
No – they don’t have to say a word
They have already laid out their fate for me
Which lies there –
Bright as night but lifeless still –
With the spectre of their evidence
XXI – Le Monde
This cracked and isolated universe
Finely wreathed
In my own self caused separation
From the bull and from the eagle
From the lion and from humanity