Image: Unsplash, downloaded (https://unsplash.com/photos/W_6b8pWBUKY) 08.07.2023.
Roger, Go at Throttle Up
I reached this place under a waning moon, and cannot go on
I am so sorry to have been so much trouble
I shall never forget what you have been for me
in those days I was one who wished to make a god of myself
say goodbye to Pat, say goodbye to the president
and say goodbye to yourself
all the damn fool things you do in life you pay for
somebody’s got to care
I am bored of it all
we coped with the sadness
we wait for death from one moment to the next
one never knows the ending,
although Catholics have their high hopes
the Godfather, my archnemesis!
my anchor is well cast
t don’t kiss me; it is the sweat of death
I see black light
ssThe fog is rising
It is done
Waning
so one who
Pat got have their
My archnemesis but don’t it is the
I see the is rising it is
Note: every line in this poem is taken from a different person’s last words.
A Thousand Kinds of Silence
the silence when
we listen for the first heartbeat
one-two, one-two, the start of a dance
a hundred sleepless nights
crying, howling with the wind
one-two, one-two
you sleep soundly for the first time
we stand there on the precipice, afraid to wake you
in and out, in and out
your first tantrum
a grocery store, a friend’s house
‘I’m so sorry, ignore her,’ we say
[stanza continued]
in and out, in and out
you wait by the letter box
your girlfriend pulls up in a sleek chevy
like your dress, the perfectly ironed sheen of a first impression
one-two, in and out, take a deep breath
refusing to eat dinner
looking out the window
hoping that sleek chevy pulls up
in—hiccup—out
I can’t hear the thousand quiet thoughts
in your head that I once did
I hear the clock, the time to let you go
tick-tock, tick-tock
moving to distant meadows
where the grass is greener
scaling skyscrapers
of opportunity we could not give
chasing horizons we cannot see
knives and forks scrape across the dinner plates
your mother’s chewing, my intermittent cough
I can hear my own heartbeat against the wind
one-two, one-two
the phone doesn’t ring
you’re busy, we know
flying above the monoliths
refusing the touch the ground
remember to breathe, okay?
the air is thin up there
in-out, in-out
wheels grind gravel
we hear footsteps at the door, shuffling and nervous
you have your own key, but you knock
you take me in your arms, coiling in
I feel your heartbeat against mine
one-two, one-two
your breathe in the thick air
into the crook of my corduroy sweater
in-in-out, out-out-in, in-out-out, in-out, in-out, in and out, in and out
the same clock that presided over your cot sounds out the hour
tick-tock, tick-tock
there is never time to return home, but always space to
About the Author: Tim Hickson spends his days tucked away in the little corner of the world some would call New Zealand, where he enjoys writing about existentialism and mental health, the concept of the self, and the problem of consciousness. His work has appeared in Utopia Science Fiction, Orion's Belt, Apparition Lit, and more. His work has a following of 1M online where he is sometimes better known as 'Hello Future Me' on YouTube. You can follow him there or at @TimHickson1 on Twitter.
