Robert Verdon, #320, What I Heard while I was Waiting to Die
voices of the
undecided, breathless by a small volcano
the noisy unborn
behind the silk road hedges of the twenty-first century
various radio
musicians glistering in new funky aural jewellery
the tinkle and clink
of opulent lunch hours in fantasy
the bee-buzz of
afternoon
mountain bicycles
and lycra humming by
nurse ’n’
patient farts and roaring truck-gears on the freeway
people in nearby
beds gassing on about God
feeble winds on
far-flung hills
my heart, pumping,
strong — it wasn’t the problem
my lips, slimy as
potato broth with vomit
voice of the
voiceless, my own quiet refusal
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