On Listening to ‘Ohne Dich’ by Rammstein and Getting a Bit Carried Away

Without you, the dozen bottles of beer
in the fridge deplete to zero. A mere
hour with my own thoughts for company
becomes an aeon, then a low-grade eternity.
Loneliness comes sneaking in. So does fear.
Self-doubt’s outside. Existential dread is near.
Hello, worthlessness. The gang’s all here;
they’re here to stay. This is what happens to me
without you.
Time’s ebb and flow is regulated by the weir
of your absence. There’s nothing clear
or sparkling about these waters; nothing coolly
inviting. They’re sluggish, dank, scummily
fuzzed with algae, waste, dead leaves. It’s drear
without you.
Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham in 1972, son of a truck driver, grandson of a miner. Fuck knows where the whole poetry thing comes from. Neil holds down a day job and goes out boozing a lot. His collection No Avoiding It is published by Shoestring Press.

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