Self Portrait Poem by Adam Soper

I
For months I have been avoiding the mirror,
Hiding from my reflection in glass and in water,
I'm terrified of what will be looking back at me,
What that person looking out of the glass will think of me,
I know he'll have an opinion,
All eyes hold opinions
Like lovers hold hands in the summer.

It's not the slow growing facial hair that concerns me,
Nor the hugely messy hair,
(The intensity of the knots grows everyday,
I pray, unsuccessfully, they will tie my paranoia down) .

II
The Devil's harmony screeches out of the violin,
Through my ears and, almost immediately,
Into my bloodstream, where was my immune system?
I can feel that jagged chord tearing apart my body,
It's a cannonball down a hallway, an Alpha particle.

III
Will I reach my destination?
Will I ever get to Dis?
I must remember payment for the ferry,
(I hope they'll take card)
And keep a watchful eye on the three toothy jaws,
Which will snap at my heels,
A postman's nightmare and, ultimately, their fate.

There's a place in hell for those who believe,
Their soul dies with their bodies,
For eternity they're trapped in burning coffins,
Intense pain up until judgement day,
But at least they don't get cold feet.
For a long time I was certain,
My fate would be with them,
But now it cannot be.

My soul has already departed, deceased,
Leaving my mind and body to continue alone,
On this long, lonesome road.

IV
I long now for hope,
For Aeneas to take me to his promised kingdom,
For Sal Paradise to whisk me away,
On the road.
But they're bound down with something stronger than my hair,
And I can't cut them free,
No-one can cut them free.

There are no Sirens here so why have a steered towards the rocks?
There's blue in green and a piano in my cough,
It really needs a tune.

Groom to be or a slave for death?
Wealthy men, wealthy men, expensive pens,
Fountains surrounding the headquarters of idiocy.

V
The cocoons in my ears are beginning to hatch,
The ant's nest is now bigger than life itself,
And stronger than reality,
Which is the mirror I need to smash?
The seven years will be a honeymoon for me.

Over-consumption strangling herself,
Every institution, kicking itself,
Drink up life by the pint,
Drunkenness with help you through it,
Life is a terrible, terrible disease,
And the only known cure is death.