20,000 yard stare
My appearance is now
that of a bloated corpse,
found after two weeks in the water.
An expired lust wrapped in skin.
Copy paper white,
My eye lids are purple and dry,
lips like chilli flakes,
under the lipgloss.
I only taste the sweet things,
and all other senses have de-evolved to the pleasures of a dog.
20,000 yard stare.
Like an empty drum of kindness,
my fat core holds me up in my seat.
Bones are for dogs and earth.
My portrait hangs on the passenger window.
A flash lit mirror,
from sun breaks through,
shop front curtain walls.
I no longer see myself or child;
Loved ones too
would twice wince look,
to question what’s left upon the slate,
as the sheet’s pulled back by the coroners hand,
at the inquest of my rise.
The taxi stops.
I have arrived.
Christopher Hopkins, was born and raised in Neath, South Wales, surrounded by machines and mountains, until he moved to Oxford in his early twenties. He currently resides in Canterbury and works for the NHS. Christopher has had poems published in Rust & Moth, The Journal, Harbinger Asylum, Scarlet Leaf Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice magazine, Versewrights, Poetry Superhighway and Duane’s PoeTree and the online literary journal 1947. Two of his early e-book pamphlets “Imagination Is My Gun” and “Exit From A Moving Car” are available on Amazon.