There are six ways to die on my table top
There are four ways to get lost in my cupboard
There are seven men drowning in my bottom drawer
There’s a coma above the ceiling fan
and an incinerator under my covers
Under the bed is a mouse trap
In the sink is a death trap
In the gap between the walls
is the most appalling noise
and my radio produces
only the frantic breaths of fitness breeders
The tortured hide under my pillow
(though they belong in my ears)
The glass in the window is made
of the slowest distorting tears
(I never produced them)
The carpet covers my blood
My clothes are covered in sod
The wallpaper hides my dreams
and my dreams have spilled at the seams
I collect masks that are the person I hid
Where do I sit ?
The door is a lid
The room is too warm
Enclosed
An expanding balloon
Nearly twenty year old poem. Minor changes made.