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Dead Poets

Author Biography
Poetry By
  Krishan Coupland


Published on: 1/18/2013
Housemate

We knew him by the things he left:
crumbs of himself,
dishes mouldering in the sink and
humid walls.
A smell like burned bread.

He was more his shadow than his shadow,
padding sock-softened feet in 3AM quiet.
Click-prang of toast, glub of coffee.
And sobs, sometimes.
Often.
Which we all ignored.


Published on: 1/17/2013
Tick

When I cough,
hard, lungs rattling,
cogs and tiny springs
burst out, plip like spittle
in the foam-scummed sink.

My joints tick,
tight as mousetraps.
I spill coffee, break plates,
ruin cheques a dozen times over.
At night, my fingers clamp tight
on the duvet
and won't let go.

Being clockwork,
one aches to be
human.
To sleep,
to never need winding,
to have a heartbeat, and dreams.

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