by Vicky Ward
Something like ‘I love you’, a whisper.
Cats with wide eyes, twisted voices,
Muffled, ‘Is that you?’
In the room then pass the window,
Hind legs, wheelbarrow formation,
Heads twisting back.
‘Move your legs,’ faceless denim legs taking up the sofa,
‘They’re not my legs,’ the voice,
Eyes, black holes and glaring.
Outside, the girl on the street,
‘You have to leave this place.’
Yellow, desert sand, something like soldiers surround.
‘Can we go this way?’
The room, ‘Why are you screaming at me?’
Voices grinding.

0 thoughts on “Lucid

  1. I’m going to go ahead and assume you’re the same vicky ward who I know. So awesome to see you on H&H. I like how this poem progresses as the strange and abstract images change. I also like the contrast of the title to the poem. Your writing style seems like it will work well with a lot of the other kinds of writings that get brought here. I hope I get to see more.
    And I hope you’re doing well. How are you? Phil and I came out to Jogja this weekend. Yesterday, we drank a beer in the morning and rented motorcycles. We’d never driven those before. So we started out for the temple an hour away but when we got to the main street, Phil drove the wrong way down the road and got the absolute shit kicked out of him by oncoming traffic. He’s not dead, he just looks like it, and we even kept driving to the temple after we got his bike fixed after the collision. The man is tough as nails. Tell us what you’re up to now friend. Talk to you later.

        1. Ole Phil is my roommate out in Jakarta where we teach at a language school. He’s from Boston, and he looks like a lemur with a bad attitude. He went to the hospital yesterday despite his general hardassery, but still avoided getting x-rays so we could have more beer money. They did wrap up his wrists, but he’s taking the bandages off now because they’re “annoying.” Anyway, we met Vicky Ward out here too. We sneak into her old pool all the time. This one time my other roommate and I met these girls there at her pool and they were Indonesian models. I kissed one of them for a while, and the next day received a text message of her admitting she was actually a pre op transexual. Jakarta is the land of infinite hijinks and bad decisions.
          I’m really hoping my friend is the same Vicky Ward who wrote this, or this poor stranger isn’t going to know what I’m going on about.

          1. Hey dong, yes it’s me. Thanks, I will send more in, and thanks for introducing me to this place. I like reading your stuff on here, a very fuzzy window into the bizarre world of Matt.
            I’m living in Bolzano in Italy, it’s way up north by the mountains. It’s insanely beautiful, although I do miss people shouting at me in the street, and I think I’m going to have to start crossing the road on red just for kicks. Also, saying ciao all the time and not feeling like a pretentious arsehole is going to take some practice. I can’t believe you guys are using my pool as a pick up ground, how rude! And poor Phil, maybe motorcycles first, beer second next time? Just a suggestion.. Anyway, try not to kill yourselves just yet, at least not on motorcycles in Indo, so cliche..

          2. heyyy i like yr poem. saying ciao without feeling pretentious would take some getting used to for me, as well. lucid! i know what that feeling is like. i’ve been abstaining from that word for a few months because…i don’t think anyone could ever be completely aware

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