1

this is how i

know the world

is trying to end

again.

hannah whelan, 2015

2

3

how many are missing from the world? how many untouched shape the world?

the world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions

in silence he whispered– i can’t remember anything i don’t see anything at all

ashes.

nothingness.

it doesn’t matter what you do.

have you ever seen the atom-bomb from two hundred miles up? it’s a pinprick. it’s nothing.

with the wilderness all around open up and let the green and the land and the wilderness in. remind people that we’re little and that we survive; take back what is given as easily as the sea

tell us we are not so big.

you lifted my skull. in the convolutions of my brain the big ridges of his thumbprint– he touched me.

he said to me

he said—

4

5

i wake up at 4:30am, & this is how i know the sky is falling. like a hurricane which tears the rooftop off the house and blinds me.

this is how i know the world is trying to end again.

this is how i know that i am ravenous; the black hole swallowing myself on dreary friday morning’s, the black cloud hovering at birthday parties, scythe in hand, tapping a wristwatch impatiently.

i have already outstayed my welcome.

6

7

my thoughts are like trains passing in the night from manchester to sheffield and back again

so fast they’ll make your head spin, or your organs just plain fall out of your chest

and no, i don’t have anything to cry about; except the wind that whispers to me in graveyards, suggesting i run off the cliff and fly

but my eyes are glued shut sap, and i already clawed out the bulbous daffodils rooted in my skull

it’s winter in the high peak;

and all you’ll see for miles is

the vast and empty platitudes

of yourself

8

9

i was talking to the trees about the state of things. they leaned towards me, lending a thousand sympathetic ears to my plight; but it wasn’t enough. it never is.

so i upload torrents of frankenstein thoughts, for the perusal of a few foreign ghosts - always forgetting that it washes straight through them.

together we walk through windows and walls; transparently opaque.

in the living room on monday mornings, a man is screaming at an empty fridge.

nobody moves.

10

11

spilling my guts on your carpet is a defence mechanism. if i

show the world my innards, there’s nothing else to be found.

i’m hiding in plain sight, and we can’t see the wood for the

trees. prise open the box with pointed claws whilst i sit on the

table and smile. don’t you know why they call me pandora?

12

13

i am no jay gatsby.

my flashing light is a red one,

burning bright from a

blue and white screen.

the dog; the sleeping giant on the floor,

a pile of wrinkles with no eyes.

a stitch in time saves nine, so go ahead

and stick a needle right through me.

they said i could leave, but if i tried

they’d have to stop me.

still, the doors remain locked, but

only in a metaphorical sense.

so come inside and join the party;

there’s blood seeping through the walls

and a constant thudding somewhere deep beneath our feet.

take off your shoes and dance;

swim in a vat of champagne--

decadence suits you on a night

with no moon.

14

15

everything skips a beat

and i am lurching

out of myself

again

falling is easy

when you’re already face down

in the gutter

i see the truth, i see the way you look

at me

and i am free

16

17

i’m as safe as a bank vault just before someone

drives their van through the window

and robs the place clean

this doesn’t mean anything

spending money i don’t have

on endless distractions from the mind-numbing

emptiness

or is it more like

drowning in yourself

as your bloodstream turns deep purple

after litres of abuse

from strongbow dark fruit

we can’t see the moon without the sun

this is not a metaphor unless

you’ve stood ankle deep in the irish sea

willing the tide to drag you away

wake me up when September ends

in 78 years

or don’t

it’s entirely up to you

18

19

it never happens like it does in the movies

you just wake up one day and realise that

you’re 21 and borderline alcoholic

covered in scars

with absolutely nothing to show for it

groundhog day is an understatement

you’re exhausted with yourself

but moreso with the sun

that insists on jabbing it’s

obnoxious little fingers through your curtains

every hungover weekday afternoon

and jeremy kyle is shrieking at someone else

when you finally make it downstairs

for a smoke, and you think

well, at least I’m not a heroin addict

with a daughter who hates me;

at least i’m not being humiliated

on national tv

(this is ironic)

thank god there aren’t any mirrors

because you can’t remember the last time you felt clean

or anything other than

the ghost of a tonne of bricks

it never happens like it does in the movies

20

21

i avoid mirrors lest i turn myself to stone, or accidentally see something other

than a monster. keeping up appearances is exhausting; every other word is a

lie. i’m not human, and i was never meant to be, but i’m locked inside this

meat caskett until either the sun burns out, or i do. even then i’m probably

doomed. they say eternal life is the reward of the pure and virtuous, but i

reckon it’s a curse. i’m tired of pretending. eyes closed and hands over ears;

i’m not here i’m not here

22

s l i g h t o f h a n d

j u m p o f f t h e e n d

i n t o a c l e a r l a k e

no one around

j u s t d r a g o n f l i e s

f a n t a s i s e

n o o n e g e t s h u r t

you've done nothing wrong

(codex, radiohead, 2011)