POEM TITLE Am I In The Lobster Pot
POEM
Am I In The Lobster Pot
So I’m standing in Tate Modern looking at
Salvador Dali’s Lobster Phone and this guy
behind me takes in a deep breath through his
Nostrils, leans forward and whispers to me,
‘This really is indicative of the genre’
BOOM!
And I’m like, ‘you think you can stand behind me
with your fancy talk, trying to take a hold of
my thoughts, are you out of your tiny mind?
do you think you can just appear to
my consciousness like you own the place?
Face-to-face with the Lobster Phone and
R-I-N-G! R-I-N-G!
snapping claws and clockwork legs in my hand
voices crackling down the wire like scratched
vinyl records and I don’t know if this
is real – really happening ‘cause my
perception is breaking-up, it’s drifting
there’s a shift in my awareness like I can
see without light, thousands of black sparks
in black daylight, thousands of me standing
side-by-side inside an hour glass, twenty
metres tall and one by one like dominoes
I fall onto the sand, crashing like waves – liquid
and seeping further into oblivion
my voice is coloured red and deepening
in tones which set me free from form, my
sensations are in chaos – heaps of senses, no clarity
polarity extinct, reality unknown.
am I in The Lobster Pot?
am I the Lobster Phone?
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