This is not a poem. This is not prose. This is merely a collection of fragments, scraped from the bottom of a shattered consciousness, about that moment of dissociation, upon receiving a fateful piece of communication. Where has language gone? Where is that entertaining babblebrook? It was yesterday. This. Today, still unable to muster verbal speech. My mouth has left me, and has not yet returned from its bleak wanderings in outer space. Only Lucy understands. She does not mind. Non-speaking, but I have recovered some semblance of wordedness. Typed words. Here they are.

The Missive – 15/02/2016 06:34

Immobilised by shock.

Engulfing interstice of non-entity.



Choking gurgles.

Brittle fragments of Being jettisoning wildly back and forth.

Someone was wailing. The cry was my own.

Molten liquid flowed downwards, swirling around hot burning feet, then dissolving into nothingness beneath.

Cold… it felt icy cold… in the warm summer air. And nausea.

Gloaming churning into blackness.

Mocking pyrotechnics inside bowels fear.

Lucy lying by my side… receding, disappearing into fog.

My eyes left me.

I could not see.

Kinesthesia seeping away.

Body motionless, cannot flinch from thunderous pain.




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