Timothy Edmond #4

Maybe not a poem
but a pogrom.


You can’t know
life until you
are dead.


Finger tight.



Funny looking baby
looks like it’s asleep
with its eyes open.


Living in someone
else’s mouth.


I think a hot shower
tonight.
The hot water is working.

The weather is cold
and rainy outside with
wind lashing the trees
against the house.
I got wet on my motor
bike coming home.
I am still damp.

I will lie in

bed warm listening.



The new house is too
loud.


I will roll out all the
rugs tomorrow to
soften the sound.


With only hard surfaces
there is only reflected
sound which confuses
people and makes them
shout to be heard
over the din.

Rugs and wall coverings
break up the sound
and make the spaces

fit for humans.



Conversations that
last for days. Years.


The new right
never won any
arguments.


The talking cat never
said anything.


There was a moment
when I thought every
one would understand
but I only grow bigger, my
clothes wear out.


Tomorrow I will

fix the table, reconcile
the banks, find an
electrician to fix the
wiring, do my tax
and find a new lamp

for the main room.
It may be in the
ceiling space.


Ate a tin of spaghetti
under fluorescent light.


Asleep in a dark
house.
In my flannelette pyjamas.



“Only three lines,
five syllables in the
first line, seven in
the second, and five
in the third, - total of
seventeen syllables.”


But it is also the movement
of the body when you
write.