Owain Lloyd-Williams

 

 

 

On Sickness

Well what can I say; what can I say?
I’ve been in the hotpot little under a month, nay;
barely three weeks and a day;
first crowded in excess; now shunted, wild
worn-out and alone.

In the grasp of a nearby concrete maze
there echoes space lights and spoiled sounds,
voices high, low and laughing,
screaming bells and Tchaikovsky;
child’s play and fire.

The room is cold.
Last night was pure haze.
Amid karaoke dreams of a Western well-being,
Budweisers and laughs, cigarettes and baths,
I nearly tasted what they told me
was true freedom.

At each and every five hour interval
there comes a knock at my prison door;
up comes a handyman, belt and hat a blazing,
tongue twisting and dark eyes gazing,
all to a shy young man
oblivious to his good intentions waving.

The room is cold.
At night I suck on light-green liquor
in search of fixes of homely wit;
barely in video form.
I see the eighties, the nineties, Tories, New Labour,
baked beans, English Indians, tomatoes, stale bread.
I think of brown tea, (the way it should be?)
I think of hot and cold that’s never really there
but by god don’t we wish it.

I think of family smiles and frustrations, closures
and wing snapping.
I think of brotherly banter;
easiness, uselessness,
flash in the pan annoyance.

The room is cold. New, but cold.
Outside lies wild imagination;
ritual tongues and love;
ways of new and old begging naked discovery.
Perhaps then the room’ll no longer be cold,
and dogs will run free.

 

 

 

Owain Lloyd-Williams is a writer from West Sussex who has just returned from the UK after spending four and a half years living and working in China. After obtaining a degree in English literature and language, he has continued to write all manner of poetry and prose, and is currently adding the final touches to his first novel.

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