:: Article

Sentient Regenesis & other poems

By Emilia Batchelor.

Sentient Regenesis

As the heavier child on a see saw

he pulls

your clothes off

and you return as a crack-shot baseball

stopped at high speed like

thwop.

You sleep one hour in one hour out

shivering then sweating

hungry nauseated

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

mmmm

ahhhh

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

who

when subjected to other women

cutting in line at the supermarket

hurl abuse

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

passivity.

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

catchment somewhere.

.

Vision

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

And writhing

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

.

Shelf life

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

measure it.


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.