Walking Blind

A Poem In Three Acts

Georges Cunningham



Act I – Semolina In Distress


Scene I – Monday Afternoon, Overcast

They told me it was night.

They told me not to fight.

They told me all was normal.

It was a bomb in my hands, melting, seething prosthetic ooze, which covers all the portholes.

Is there any light left? Can there be?

A dawn left incomplete, swirling around.




Just like the horizon.

Alien and strange like a subterranean mole smiling at the demise of grand plans of the sky giants, without perceived control.

Without control.

Without control.

Without control.



Scene II – Wednesday Evening, Breezy

There is death.

There isn’t life.

There is pain.

There isn’t pleasure.

It all will rain.

It all will rain cold abandonment down with darkness and abyss.

It all will rain.

Mercilessly absolute.

It all will reign.






Act II – At Oxford, Looking For Exotic Breads


Things Of War

War Like Pigs

Pigs From Death

Death For Things


Things Like War

War From Pigs

Pigs For Death

Death Of Things


Things From War

War For Pigs

Pigs Of Death

Death Like Things


Things For War

War Of Pigs

Pigs Like Death

Death From Things


Death For Pigs

Pigs Of War

War Like Things

Things From Death


Death Of Pigs

Pigs Like War

War From Things

Things For Death


Death Like Pigs

Pigs From War

War For Things

Things Of Death


Death From Pigs

Pigs For War

War Of Things

Things Like Death






Act III – A Singular Moment Of History Remains Unperturbed By A Faint Looking Glass


Scene I – Sunday Night, Cold


There was a forest I walk through to forget the sight of earth

The dense woods of darkness encapsulating my tunnel vision, with full dirge playing in the wind.

Losing myself is my only need but I path I always find.

A clearing, a windfall, a canyon that regresses deeper

Yet still provides an escape for the accompanying woods.

I much rather light a match to see it all burn down, watching from the tallest tree, waiting for the fall

So I would be lost forever in the woods and I would bother no one, and no one would bother me

Only my bones

Only my bones

Only my bones on earth

Motionless sterile uncaring.

My bones

My lovely bones

My lovely bones

My bones



Scene II – Thursday Morning, Thunderstorm


There will never be, there will always be

A strong and unrelenting duality

Covering the womb and veil.


I look upon the moor

Can the moor look upon me?

I breathe and exhale routinely.

A fleeting notion came upon me as I saw myself watching my reflection in a mirror

A vision opened my mind to the limitlessness of the universe,

Of the scope of human consciousness, and the depth of meaning of words, numbers, and symbols

Everything shone in the beauty of the moment.


I felt as if a spiritual plasma acted as a cloud and carried me to the upper echelons of experience

I saw everything as a sphere of collected events, individual yet communal, all spun from the same length if yarn.

It flowed over me and I flowed through it. My eyes opened and couldn’t close.

I sat in front of myself in front of the mirror for what felt like 704 years.

Everything I wanted, everything I needed was there.


Then, a spasm, and a blink. It snapped back and shot me down upon the barren earth.


I opened my eyes to nothing.