Suspend

By Hister Grant

This book is a collection built up over around three years, including much that is bizarre and unhappy. The period marked a new low for the author with things, as always, going from bad to worse. These poems represent little respites for the author and an attempt to connect with something.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Feb 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524597931

Hister Grant

Hister Grant has been writing poetry since he was twelve, left school when he was fourteen, lives alone in total darkness and enjoys the poetry of Charles Bukowski, Wilfred Owen and Benjamin Decasseres. He has manic depression and a severe personality disorder which in his spare time he wrestles with, while listening to extreme electronics. Also a cartoonist, he fully intends to start his own extreme electronics project. Also he enjoys writing lists.

Book preview

A Very Tall Building

I’m at the top of a very tall building,

I am very high up,

I’m looking down,

But not really,

I’m lost,

But it’s very obvious where I am,

I’m lost but it’s very obvious where I am,

My eyes briefly come into focus, but it passes,

I let myself sway a little then stop,

I climbed up here without thinking,

Wanted to see the world!

But I’m not really interested,

My head bobs as I think,

As though I’m counting,

Or working myself up for something,

I want something to lean against,

I could jump,

But that would be silly,

It is silly, daring myself like that,

I am utterly aimless.

A Plant (A Banal Still life)

Many leaves and fewer stems,

And the space between the leaves,

Verdant green, like verdant grass,

Fields and fields of grass,

The environment and nature,

The plant is dying before my eyes,

In a concrete pot, on concrete slabs,

It’s the picture of the utterly crap,

The air is wet, in the heavy cold,

And I turn away from the something green,

There’s a statue, too,

In this closed off space (offices all around),

It’s a man, in a suit,

Cast in a bronze, that’s as filthy as all hell and mud,

Hands on its hips, looking at the ground,

Ridged and completely inhuman,

There’s a plaque on its base,

Which I’m not going to read,

Its glasses are squint and its suit looks like shit,

Its face is a leering mess,

I draw on my fag,

Contemplating this scene,

That spiritless body,

And the oblivious plant, failing to clean the air.