Sentient Regenesis & other poems
By Emilia Batchelor.
As the heavier child on a see saw
your clothes off
and you return as a crack-shot baseball
stopped at high speed like
You sleep one hour in one hour out
shivering then sweating
and return as flickering light bulbs
passively involved in fostering Stockholm Syndrome
a co-conspirator of your own kidnapping.
You drink fast
so that by 10pm you are
lying on your back thinking
something floating like your grandma’s face.
Return as a sentient daydream
wandering through thoughts
a silvery puddle
that resurfaces in alternate instances of drunkenness
relaxing people everywhere.
For the road rage-
you return as moving images of polite seemingly
ladies with prams
when subjected to other women
cutting in line at the supermarket
played on repeat on CCTV footage
in the mind of a check out salesperson
with repressed aggression issues.
As the repressed salesperson
you are only able to conceptualise yourself in the second person
since this is part of the penance and subsequent
For never listening-
You return as the fruit dumped in supermarket rubbish bins
gnawed on by rats
feeling the rat head probe deeper towards the heart
and on to roaming bits of gravel under the footsteps
of your supermarket employer.
Return as the perceptible darkness inside a truck of butchered carcasses that commuters disembarking from the station platform unexpectedly sidestep the curb and enter.
Then again, barbecued in the intestines of someone watching melodrama which in this darkness is audible as well as slow traffic outside.
In cases of temperate mood swings
lie in bed with the fan blowing your twitching face.
Everything is arhythmic
for a split second lose consciousness and return as
a body of water, The Pacific Ocean
dispersed and screaming like nerve endings stretched
after a full body caste has been applied and lifted
and you’re bending
lose consciousness and return as a cloud
holding water momentarily before dripping
and resurface bloated and slick in a
I’d have teeth that grow long and curve up
Can wiggle like those eyebrows
And eyebrows to gnash when they frown
A face with features that violently wrestle
My mouth can commentate and when the left side
Takes a break and the right side
Takes a breather
My mouth can commandeer the spotlight
Harass people on the street
I’d have my body to be naked all the time
For people not to be able to describe the movement with words
My tongue taking root in their mouths
Their teeth would grow long and curve up
We would eventually tangle
This hasn’t even had time to fall apart yet and we all know how easy that is – and my hands are
rapidly aging in comparison I can almost see the time go by – but I’m wearing a watch too – I was
really impressed with the museums ceilings – I got all caught up in the sound of that rope
twisting – ‘everything revolves around the image of sex. Not to mention the humiliation.’
Maybe I’ll wake up on a plane and have been sleeping next to my reflection – maybe I’ll wake up
to a woman screaming at me – you can’t tell until it happens – time happens in silence – the
silence is perfect and time is something we made up to measure it.
Are we suffering from profound hypothermia – is the slow – is the confusion – the cold wind from
the freezer where something grey is frosted over – is that a kind of tomb – I can’t – worry you –
but I worry about those who can – with freezers – we eat too many omelets to make jokes – my
fridge leaks – is that profound hypothermia – we have no future but the ice that we made to
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emilia Batchelor is currently living in Seoul, Korea. She is one half of Thin Walls Press, and God Ate My Google Drive reading night, both based in Sydney. Her contribution ‘Lunchmeat’ to the LUMA 89plus poetry exhibition can be found online. She tweets @bemiliamilia and @thinwallspress.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, August 24th, 2014.