Small Room. Poem by Ripper Jones

A small room, with a marble tiled fire-place,
With a coal scuttle and tongs either side.
A mantelpiece with some plastic ornaments
And pictures on top, family of course,
Symbols of a popular existence.

A cot, and my mother picking me up and feeding me.
Only I see it from a distance, outside my body,
In someone else's eyes. Only it is still me,

In the distance of time and memory.
That was one of my first memories.
There were bound to be others that might come back,
Tripped by some unforeseen happening:
Where of course we have to contend that all
happenings are unforeseen,
Except when they've actually happened.

Kudos for some nice neurons
Who take it upon themselves,
Or are motivated by a messenger quark,
To touch and evoke a precious past for the delight
And entertainment for some other neurons,
Of no import whatsoever to the outside world.

It's a unique inner sanctum confidante,
To die with you. As you take the last breath.
Everything's lost in the end anyway.
What a bizarre universe, where animals are eaten alive.
The secrets that nobody knows or wants to know,
Out of not trepidation but disinterest.

The feeling was of warmth,
Like the warmth that women must have got
Fashionably with a dead fox's fur round their necks.
Teddy-bear comfort and security, as if no-one
And nothing could ever harm you,
In your never ending false-trip of immortality.