Brett Lock

I don’t belong here.
I’m a fish out of water.
There’s a dull pain in my eyes
and the heat,
the heat torments us remorselessly.
Fire on air!
Fire on air!
It is murder.

“I’m feeling quite alright in here,”
I spat into my companion’s ear.
The truth of it will soon appear.
I turned my head and said to her:
“Your feeling’s clear, but I must demur.
I’m sure there’s nothing strange about this place.”
“If there’s somewhere else you would prefer,
then of course I would defer.
None of this will end in loss of face.”

The heart is dark.
It stares across the room.
It says: “This quiet is disquiet;
this space a disgrace.”
It swells
and then boom:
Why don’t you love me?
Why don’t you do something with your life?
You eat too much!
You own too much!
You don’t think enough!
Where are you going with this ‘drama’?
Where are you going?

We’re aliens and exiles
for whom the sun gives no quarter.
There’s no rain in the skies
and the wind,
the wind strafes us without mercy.
Fire on air!
Fire on air!
It is murder.

Why don’t you love me?

“The horror, the horror,” the last words in my ear.
A rage hotter and hotter stoked panic and fear.
Lies kinder than heaven, in truth colder than hell.
Both left on a river as silence fell.