John Garth Raubenheimer

(21/12/1947 / Johannesburg)

2001 A Psychotic Odyssey


A nurse. Set to explode. She had
them fooled.
But I'd seen her before,

android on my father's workshop floor.
I said, 'I'm watching you,
I know what you're for.'

We who'd dug our way to Earth,
all knew the score;
space-miners in a jewelled corridor
turning, sifting dim light,
epic tunnellers, and tappers,
bright star to bright star...

'Please be nice to Gwyneth.'
The white-coat's name was Grim.
I felt his injection going in.

After it,
aliens like allen keys stitched
us up, like dolls -
their notion of kind - they
mixed
up our parts.
Wrong arms, wrong legs,
wrong thoughts, wrong heads. Each
crammed in a capsule,
our private shell,
hurtling to nothing or hell.

'We were the country of
Shakespeare', one parallel puppet
yelled,


But then, a new start. Neon slammed
up walls.
I shone in bright clothes...
Nurses flapped up walls.

Someone who might have been a friend
said,
'You spent two nights at
the end of your bed.
I've never seen anyone sit
so still.
I've never seen anyone look so ill.'

Church friends. Our vicar paid a call.
Stood tall in his stolid
black shoes.

I could feel him suffering.
'Get up, ' spoke his need
as I kissed his solid, shiny shoes.

Submitted: Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Edited: Wednesday, June 11, 2014

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