"Eight month long panic attack"
Breath quickens in the morning and I reach for the news
Inject hypodermic dismay
Sharkbite future, razor blade clouds. The last great modern poet hadn't been born yet. Where is the punk soul? Where is the jazz? Who will be the last angry voice?
Inject. Read the news. Fill your brain. Breathe. Remember to breathe. Do we have a date yet? Breathe. Breathe.
You can't remember the time before. The faces are mist and strangers surround you. Your voice breaks and your throat is a balloon full of cotton wool. You try to demand "who is in charge here?" But nobody answers. Nobody. Silence. Empty. Breathe. Breathe.
Strangers surround you. You still can't inhale. Inject. Hypodermic. You close your eyes and they blur into a haze. It hasn't made sense since David Bowie died.
You push the box cutter to the skin on your wrist and hope you can get through another ten minute.
You don't know where you're going. You don't know who is at the wheel. Don't cry, just breathe.
You look around at old skyscrapers the height of broken dreams and your fingers twitch, because you want to grab a tin of paint and set the country alight with a burning new shade. Breathe. Don't fall. Don't fall off the edge. Don't fall. Breathe.
And you can't catch your breath, because you know it isn't over.
Because It's only October, you're only four months into this eight month long panic attack.