Living in New Cross has always been perilous but as of late things seem to be getting really bad, must be the recession and all. Anywho my housemate and I were mugged (again) about four weeks ago, it was ridiculously intense etc etc, but that's not what I'm here to talk about, every man and his wife has a mugging story. What I found interesting was the feeling of fear that I felt afterwards; long after the incident had finished and I was safe in my house I felt so much more scared than when it was actually going on. Thus I wrote this poem about the claustrophobic feeling of that fear.
Also some of the title credit has to go to Rachael, as I was struggling over it for weeks and then sat down with her for help, and this is what was born. It's also one that I've read at the last 2 Clinic nights, so some of you may have heard him floating about.
This Poem Is Not About Caving
The water, ankle level down here,
laps into my boots making my feet swell.
The walls inch toward my skin,
stone encasing me entirely.
Breath bounces back
off the walls in front.
The slim space far outweighs
any effect of touching;
pressing with absence.
My eyes might
even be open,
I just can't tell.