flapping butterfly wings inside the wardrobe with the skeletons

fireflies circle the bulb

a low wattage casts small shadows over this thing
                         over this everything
of empty petrol station forecourts

wastelands of concrete where shoes hang from telegraph wires
and of all the stereotypes I know
  how many of them are true?

she frantically searches the book shelves for the answers and writes angry letters to the council about the lack of WI-FI at the local library

she sits on the roof to get a better view of the constellations which she can’t see from down here

the song was set on a space station orbiting earth
the astronauts were eating powdered food and trying to remember what
ice cream tasted of they couldn’t find the words to describe vanilla

in Russian Stalin banned jazz

he ordered all trumpets to be buried 300 miles from Stalingrad

yesterday was national poetry day and no one knew

outside hailstones have been falling on and off for an hour or so
spring now, but possibly still winter
the calendars could be lying

the washing machine is gurgling in another room

my cat ate my fish

my cat died when I was on a school trip

my bird fell off his perch and never knew he hit the ground

the news is on the radio and
words are jumping from its belly
something about a ******
Russian involvement

she told me this morning she dreams of dead children

I’ll leave this here
I’ll finish my tea then I’ll be off

New Boy Scout badges:

•web design

•economics

•glutton free cooking

•metaphysical philosophy

•Bowieism

God had Eden

Satan had a pleasure park of rollercoasters

Pac-Man machines and souvenir shops 

(the quests were long 
the merchandise over priced
the hot dogs cold)

and outside Eden 
the traffic stretched for miles
– cars full of screaming children and half eaten fruit
– cars full of fuming parents with half price vouchers stuffed in pockets 

others climbed over the fence to the garden of Eden
they bought a packed lunch with them

a blanket covered in cat hair

the garden was overgrown

the fruit was rotten

dogs ran wild

they made a mental note to write a one star review when they got home

the snow, white
soft like an albino Afro
then the compacted crystalline crunch
cracked under the weight of a human foot.

It snowed sometime ago

you stood there

building the spine of a snowman, rubber soles

crunching the floor below.

The scarf you wore made you look like

the old Doctor Who

which made me look for Daleks amongst the trees.

But there were none which was a relief.

You finished the snowman with aplomb

an organic carrot and

polished stones for eyes.

The onion doesn't have layers
it has panels
nailed to its skin.

On occasions
he goes back to the warehouse
where he stores broken typewriters,
unfinished narratives of the campaign,
unexploded bombs.
sellotaped wires.

He audits his feelings
keeps them neatly arranged
on shelves and spreadsheets and

he examines them against the light
and is pleased with his investigations.