Written By

Poet and Photographer J H Martin @ A Coat for a Monkey





My pinned eyes close

On their bloods and their greys


I know where I’m going

But not what I’ll see


Not through the oak door and not up the stairs

But through the shadow filled window

Of my single room


Expanding – constricting

My fake mountain freedom into three star hotels

Where – drunk on cheap whisky

I watch her go down


Down past the dreams of my short days retreating

Down past the names and down past the heath

And back to those knives which still stab and pierce


That landlord and ‘lady’

The fights and the screams

The needles and Ketamin

The vodka and gin


Twenty-four seven – that bang bang banging

On the beds walls and doors


Before the pool cue then snaps

Before the motorbike crash

Before the shower then breaks

Before the ‘champion punches’

I take and I walk


From that hell of a ‘house’

From that  job I can’t keep

And from any bit of sense in this misfiring head


Jumped on by tuk-tuks

Beaten by bars

Crushed like the pills

And drowning in lashings of random violence


I mean –

How many fights? How many holds?

How many blackouts? And how many chokes?


Sixty? Ninety? I really don’t know

I just blank them out with these blue milligrams


The flashes

The darkness

The blood and the sperm


This foreigner lost in his own foreign land

Used and abused by distracting thoughts

Which only exist to persist in their sick repetition

Until their anger screams no and their pain sedates time


After all – who the hell cares

What this place is called?


I am nothing but a bullet hole in its concrete blocks

A mere speck of dust rising up from the streets


A hot fevered sweat

Which drips and then drops

Down this dry tranquilised throat

And on down through the screen

Until these thoughts are drowned deep

By more silver strips


Again –  I already told you now – didn’t I?

I really don’t care if it’s your break or mine


You already know that I’m going to let you win

You already know that I’m not even going to try

To make one single shot to beg or fight back


Against that scaffold pole to my knees

Against that monkey wrench to my spine

Against that gun pressed to my head


For I have no form and no feelings at all


I am nothing but an empty window

Looking out and back through this hollow figure

From inside and outside this rewinding frame


No woman

No hotel

No mountain

No room


Only eyes behind eyes

Within walls without walls


Text © J H Martin




J H’s Previous Contributions To Edge Of Humanity Magazine

Fleeting Company

Hollow Voyage

“Si, hasta la primavera”

A Breeze Of Sorrow Passing Over Emptiness

“…you know you can’t sleep there” | Passages Of A Homeless Person’s Life

A Story Of Grief

Life On The Irrawaddy’s Muddy Waters

Life On Waste Land

No Way To Die

Artist Exposé | Urban

Taking Different Paths

Reddish Days In Asia

A Quiet Exit




Edge of Humanity Magazine is an independent nondiscriminatory platform that has no religious, political, financial, or social affiliations.

We are committed to publishing the human condition, the raw diverse global entanglement, with total impartiality.


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