Green

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On that long straight road, the large houses are like ghost boxes. My ankle has given way so I am hobbling, termite steps to get to where I am going.
At first the shock dismayed me but then I am growing used to the idea
because the green that is entering my eyes is so obviously illusory and from outer space.
that it makes me laugh. I may as well have been a pineapple for all it matters,  as my ego disintegrates into small doughnut shaped flowers.
Monkey puzzle trees are solidified pain in a  way. It’s the way a tree has decided to force itself into being a giant coatrack or hatstand.
Why would anything evolve so stupidly. Proof of God? Yes, that is it. Mary Leakey standing over a massive saurean  landscape as the wormholes in time make it all very informal. A knot garden with buddleia stuck all over it, a really screwed up Escher is one that works out.

The pain is getting worse and I sit on a wall and pull on an ankle support.
If I sublimate it, everything becomes hilarious. if I go ‘oooh ouch’ I feel normal but hopeless. I watch my thoughts flit and weave trying to establish the threshold.

This much I can bear. This much. It’s not the only thing that hurts and maybe it doesn’t hurt all that much compared with vivid viridian grass on a front lawn so clipped it looks like baize I could pee on and be arrested.

I am sorry Officer. I was having a revelation on the road to Damascus.
Disability is all about pretending at eccentricity; oh that little thing… my legs do not work, but then again it’s  a  mannerism I have perfected,

like coughing ahew ahew through  a hole made by my index finger and my thumb.

the cough of spinster librarians.
Talking of which, I pretty much would like to be one at this moment. Brisk thin legs and a recycle-me canvas tote.

Come up and recycle me, make me smile.

The big wide windows shine through being able to afford a window cleaner.

The Georgian frontage is spotless and painted in Farrow and Ball drab. Pilasters whiten and cling to geometric certitude. It is obvious. My values are all absolutely fucked.

I wonder if I can wander up and bang on the big bronze knockered door and ask for respite.But it isn’t Jane Austen.
It’s living in the moment when the veils of illusion fall.

Not so much fun when the moment is brutal, futile or painful. Not so New Age when it’s  just like old age. I  am  a coral atoll made of millions of species. Parts of me die and are nibbled by bottom feeders.

there is a fragment. I am and then I am not.

 

 

Veronica Aldous 2016  all rights reserved

 

 

 

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About Veronica Aldous

Writer and artist, Veronica is a lecturer is Fine Art and Creative Writing. Her first book of poems, 'Moon Cinema' is now available on Lulu.com. Now there is also 'Mortal' her second book.
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