i could Wander the world
take a dive in the deep
colour a circle
let it cry me to sleep

as i dream in the dark
of how we used to weep
with laughter not lies
that we tell and keep

if thats what it takes to make you
happy

i could sing you a song
about this fate that i face
and id hum you a harmony
with nothing to chase

down my despair
with some lemon to suckle
in a salted shot glass
from the bottom of the bottle

then i guess you would be
happy with him
instead of me

It's falling, it's falling!

I scramble as it hits the ground—
of what a crash!— How loud is the sound
of losing a bed, the place for my head,
all simply because I'd accidentally lost
a few little screws, and now I'm distraught
as I sit and watch, and though:
a few screws loose—

Where could they be? I did not see
them under the chair, or under the table,
among the tools, nor among the cables—
Maybe I've swept them—
                                          they're not in the trash!—
Did I throw it out?—
                                 but I wasn't that rash!

Or was I?          (I pause.)

I pick up a phone, I dial a number,
his dial tone rings, I disrupt his slumber,
he grunts as I blubber— have you seen my screws?
This is no ruse, I find myself now—
a few screws loose!

I silently wait till he sighs and he says:
Have you checked the trashcan—
                                                       ­ It's not there, I saw—
Or under the table—
                                 have you checked the floor?

It's none of those places, I searched at least twice—
Why else would I call you at this time of night?
Please do me a favour and see if you find
the few screws I'm missing—
                                                if I left them behind.

I'll search tomorrow, he says with a yawn.
I hang up in sorrow, I'll call at dawn.
I'll stay awake, or go to bed late
but

wait

My bed cannot hold my head or my soul—
because of the holes and lost metal poles—
no more a bed than a pile of wood,
it cannot be used, while I am
a few screws loose.

We're moving house— he takes you a-
Part, piece by piece, picking, pulling, long thin
Steel supports from your joints. He holds you together,
          unforgiving tenderness in steel arms as you crumple into a
          pile of wood.

It's done— he waves a *****-
Driver, drilling in reverse, you watch him work
Metal out from your bones, skeleton  scattering limbs about the
          floor, which he meticulously collects and arranges, good as
          new, unassembled.

Thanks for the help, you've been— it's alright, see you soon.
Next time, I'll take the bed.

We're moving house— you are driven a-
Round, missing a turn, new place, unfamiliar
Sights you do not see, your eyes on the frame in the back (of
          your mind) as the van stops and your skeleton is
          unloaded onto a trolley.

It's done— you pay a hundred in two fif-
Ties, broken like the bed tugged through the new
Doorway and left in the living room, with the parts laid out
          neatly beside on cold marble, readied for examination and
          elimination, remnants

          of a time past—

When can you collect your stu— next week at the earliest,
One evening, Wednesday. I'll bring a van.

head in a daze
body in a haze
feeling heavy, limbs sluggish

I wade not through a swamp but
a *** of broth, thick with fat
rich with meat, hint of green
cooked to melting, innards dissolving
into nothingness— and so the ***
thickens.

No thought, no movement, only
a deep laxation, eyelids drooping
down
           down
                      down
                                 down
                                             and I
**** awake, the bus has stopped— not
my stop, and the dark beckons to me
again.

If you expect lace to be a
                    delicate mess you
           would not see what you’d
  expect as it could have been a web
             of threads woven by hand or a
                    thousand machine heads or a
           criss-crossing line along and across the
                                                 spine of a foot or the
                                       wings of a fly from a fictional
                                                       ­       book or the flick of
                                                      a wrist turning your drink
                                                           ­    into a risk you gladly
                                                          ­                      sip and fall
                                           into a dream filled with dance
                                                          a­nd lights and a
                               chance at a fanciful flight
                      but
                                ­        then comes the night
                                             and you hold your seams
                                                           ­ together even as you
                                       slip it off your shoulders no more
                                              delicacy only rubble and ruin
                                                            ­ remain as it floats
                                                      to the floor and you
                                                        stumb­le and fall
                                                          in­to the cruel
                                               hand of slumber
                           feather softness no more
                            than a web of threads  
                    and linen criss-crossing
                         over your spine and
                                     you dream
                                       of flying

A little girl stood by the path
Her heart out on a platter
Many people walked on by
And none of them saw her
By and by a wolf came past
And took a little nibble
Away back to his house of glass
He ran to chew on kibble
And then a kindly granny came
And gave a gentle pat
On her heart and on her head
As if she were a cat
Soon after came a bearded huntsman
Armed with axe and bow
He did not want that heart of hers
But took the plate and go
Holding now her heart in hand
Holed and flattened so
She wondered how and what to do
Wherever could she go
Lo and behold, a little man
Appeared on the horizon
From his pocket an ace of hearts
With which her heart he bought
Exchange made and prices paid
On his way he went
Leaving just the little girl
Paper heart in hand
then down flew a raven bird
Cawing all the while
“What a foolish trade you’ve made!”
As he pecked and pierced the paper tile
The raven was then chased away
By an old man with a cart
“That looks like you’d need it no more,
A relic to discard.”
The girl gave a tiny shake
Of her head and turned
And trudged back home, a day well spent
with something for to wait and yearn
And tomorrow again she’ll go
And stand by the path
A paper heart set on a platter
Was surely still an art

Children  encased  in  steel  structures,  while  their  parents ­ stand,

Holding  metal  square  leashes, screens  glaring  white  while they

Idle,  shadows  of  their  faces  concealed  by  light,  while ­ teachers

Around  human  squares  circle.  A  student  watches  woody  tr­ees,

Roots  unseen,   branches  neatly  trimmed  like hedges,   no  leaves  

On  the  ground  below, but  shadows  cast  by  sunlit  branche­s. He

Sympathises  with  his  like,  both  in  a school and unseenly rooted,

Confined  to  a  square.  The  overflow  is  cut  to  fit, laid  bare, seen

Under  fluorescent   light,   blinding  whiteness  of  his  blank  script

Reflecting  nothing  of  shadows  he  collects  and  cultivates­,   hides,

Overflowing  from  the  broken  branches  that  he  keeps  in his bed.