It was a rainy day
when he sent off for a pair of X-ray specs
he had seen in the back of a comic book

Days passed slowly like they were stuck in glue,
outside, a bike, chained to a leaking pipe,
rusted.

Weeds escaped through concrete.

Upstairs, the rattling bones
of skeletons in closets,
ghosts under the bed,
spider legs,
electric shocks and books already read.

Finally, one day,
slack jawed the letter box opened.

A brown parcel, tied.
Postage stamps and ink.
His hands carefully unstrung
the string and the paper fell open.

If he had X-Ray specs
he would have known
that the package was empty.

Lets go to his party later,
I don’t’ know the address
I never have,
but I know how to get there.

The house has a blue door.

We can dismantle the hosts bike
and throw the frame up a tree
let nocturnal birds fly off
with pedals in their beaks.

We can padlock his fridge,
and when no ones around
we’ll place a pigs foot under his pillow
then we can **** on the coats in a dark room
where we shouldn’t be.

We’ll ingest pills and potions and have epiphanies
under paper shaded IKEA lights.

Midnight is staggering down the hallway and
she was keen to remind me “we are appendixs in someone’s story “

carried buildings around
in his head, not real buildings
just un-sketched plans,
you understand?

He had always wanted to build a replica of
the town where he was born
not from mortar or bricks
but from spaghetti and matches and
lollypop sticks.

He wanted to build the fire station and a church
and the supermarket where he would make
tiny shopping trolleys and scatter them over
the make believe car-park where tiny
people would be carrying on with their daily chores
holding tiny bags and thinking big thoughts

He wanted there to be a spacious park for
imaginary children to enjoy wholesome picnics.
And ponds where geese, ducks and swans would
glide on the surface
near broccoli sized trees.

The town in his head would be better then the town in which
he walked but he had one big problem
he spend hours wondering how he could make the sun.

'Good evening', as I come through the door
shutting out the noise and dirt that now gathers at my welcome mat
where I wipe my shoes and leave my feet.

Hanging my head on the hat stand I am home,
today's news is getting older in the paper under my arm,
print leaves it's imprint on my white starched
office shirt.

In the kitchen there are dead animals in the oven,
cooking amongst things from the ground,
bubbling and boiling,
mother natures bounty bought from sterile supermarkets.

Fresh air is packaged in re-usable cans
re-cycled, made into planes that fly over great oceans
and mountain ranges, deserts,
where Bedouin tents blow in the breeze.

Waiting on the bus
sunglasses worn by female drivers,
scratched surface,
cigarette hanging,
redundant postbox,
red,
thoughts about letters and the written word.

A future with no pens.

Head shakes.

The pen is mightier than the sword will cause confusion in years to come.

"What is a pen?

a question from a future child - confused looking at pictures of biros.

These relics.

These dodos.

The man has a calendar with coloured circular stickers on certain days.

They signify something.

These sticky stickers are stuck
but not random,
no.

There is a logic of which only he knows

Pavement where
an egg shell should not be

that perfect shape
fractured with spider leg cracks

across the surface
of its world

how did they get there?
those Nazca Lines?

And the amount of discarded shoes seems to be multiplying each day,

the busted boot on the traffic island
its been there for weeks

a plimsoul
childs shoe

strangely,
they're all left footed

is there significance in this?

I look for patterns in everyday things,

TV Schedules
wallpaper

colouring books
Sudoku squares

floor tiles
Tube maps

football scores

I keep looking for clues
like a retired detective who just can't let go