Tom Bland: Time Fucked You Up


A poet friend Tom Bland’s poem Time Fucked You Up

that film made me think about the
constantly open
porn cinema that was behind Dean Street

the smell of every type of cum
rising like fumes from the godawful seats
where the men’s elbows had no choice but to touch

their eyes fixated on the screen but the shadows of penises to
the sides: the
vagina projected to a giant proportion on the screen

the very place of their birth     their desire to rush back

     maybe they had seen too much death or had gone
too deep into their organs

     in the projection –
their projection – flickering bodies
     without organs

imagining all their ethereal freedoms
     they failed to achieve

     but imagined they could in precreation
     before they manifested as human


in a hospital bed
           my body
                     on three or four drips

            god was the cruelty that attempted BUT FAILED to make
the body –
            body –
vomit up its organs

           to make everything STOP/IT WAS
           KILLING ME


to exhaust every cell in their bodies
to wipe out every drop of cum –

             an endless failing
             to reach an endpoint that lasted longer than a day –

             the idea of orgasm as death – “no one
             actually wanted to die” – to be nothing before

back into the place of air of people passing them in the street

             back to the computer screen/
             the desk/the questions/
             the numbers/the
             bank accounts/the flat

whether messy or clean
             the decision was a ritual
they were forced or thrown into doing
             with their own hands for the sake of time

             but as someone said, “it’s too awful to say
ugliness/beauty was the same thing at the same time in
                       the same body”


when I was a kid
I knew something about spontaneity
as the neurological circuits weren’t fixed into unbreakable patterns
                       even if my lover said LSD could change

              that brain I imagined in a jar

the nurse placed two more blankets over me but I had to piss

all I had was an empty plastic cup      it overflowed a bit

                       I sat upright holding the piss filled cup


suddenly I felt different
                                  but still the organs flooding my mind with
                                  the same thoughts

time made each tick of the clock a word running through
my head

              I just listened to the demons

                                               I found my heart had a crack
                                       led into a steelboated cell
                                with a tiny image of me

                      finally the doctor took hold of the cup

                                my hand

Find Tom’s The Death of a Clown here: The Death of a Clown / Tom Bland – Bad Betty Press
Visit Tom’s blog: Spontaneous Poetics

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