Lascaux Domesticus

I cannot sleep.
I listen to my own music.
Scrutinizing, listening for where
Another mark should be,
Holed up here in this deceptive space,
I call home,
Where I can wrap
Up against the wolves.
Sometimes I think of these past few years,
My self-imposed exile,
Like a kind of jail term.
“Yeah, I’ve been inside for seven years.”
Or perhaps even more ludicrous -
The idea that I might be some outreach ascetic,
About whom nobody knows.
What was it Bukowski said?
‘…There have always been
And always will be, little men in back rooms,
Ask Malcolm X, Kennedy and Christ.’
Well, I’m coming around slowly
To some kind of acceptance of this crazy life.
I’m in favour of the trees you know,
And the invisible.
But in my mind I’m torn by extremes
And unsettled
Anywhere.
I’ve begun to joke a little
That I’m a tramp, but I’m serious,
Defending myself with self deprecation
And getting the knife in first.
I cannot go on living like this,
This life I have,
Painting on the upholstery
Where I’ve slipped down behind the sofa.