Last Night Me
Polly’s word: Gadzooks
Colt’s question: What happens when sleep is no longer an option?
Colt: Write a poem in the “disguise” of a postcard message
Colt: Write a poem inspired by the words “the morning after”
Marian: Contrast the inherent meaninglessness of a convertible, with the idea of a convertible as an object in a meaningful experience. Use sunsets, and roads through the desert. And lots of metaphors for love and loneliness. <em>opens file</em> 123 go.
Dear last night me,
Gadzooks! I see,
You’re not asleep, it’s half past three.
Today I’m not asleep, nor waking
I’m shaking, now.
I tasked Foxie to write a poem.
He wrote about last night.
He wrote about what he did do,
And you should do it too…
So today I’m not a zombie
And can write my report promptly.
Have a bath and have a drink,
Stretch your legs or clean the sink,
Air the room or use a fan,
Be as warm, or cool as you can,
Precisely two hours after a feed.
Write a list of things you need.
No TV, no computer screens,
And not too many refried beans.
That is what the textbooks say.
So bloody easy in the light of day.
Foxie’s advice is in addition
And next to that lump, that standard edition
Of well researched common sense,
Foxie’s tip is… complete nonsense.
Hold the hand of one Stev, two,
Three Stevs, four, a million more.
Splitting and dividing, growing,
Dizzying and flowing.
A red convertible lurches forward,
Dodging dusty sunlight swords,
Faster faster, to a wall,
It doesn’t fall, goes up is all.
The road folds over near the top,
Encloses the whole world in a box.
On the outside, painted stars,
Zooming out now, from afar,
A small boy packs it in his closet,
Is that what Stev was like? Was it?
Now it is an old man smiling,
Sitting in a room and filing,
Photos in a box of stars,
Fingering one, of a car,
He had as a younger man,
Engine grease and jerrycans.
Now take this postcard,
Last night me,
Plant it in your room and see,
It grow into a hundred beds
On which to lay your hundred heads.
Just do what Foxie says.