in the clay *** by the window
the arthritic orchid
unsticks its tongue
and with fat-knuckled roots
pokes the dust for water

the crayon sun emerges from the clouds
and draws the water from the garden

"but dont you want to lighten up?"
the tree said to the sun-starved grass
whose cells were white as bone

"not really" sighed the aching grass
"its all ive ever known"

like ants in a glass struggling
your muscles sing your pointless pain
like weeds in a parking lot
you wilt and come undone
with no problems and no fun

ive dug my grave
and ill lie in it

the plague of hair has touched my face
my bedroom is a hopeless place
like white bread in the rain
i melt and come undone
with no problems and no fun

ive run my bath
and ill lie in it

“it will become a habit you get into
or i’ll just cut it off
it will become a habit”

the habit of the knuckle dragged in gorse
the salt of the crisp packet burned, a curse
upon my fingers, numbed by cold
bled daily, blistered on the pan
and branded with the bone structure
of man, of man, of man

the habit of the knuckle crushed on concrete
of the flick knife opened leisurely and drawn across the thigh
but gently, dragging in the skin
halted by fear of jelly flesh
and metal sticking in the bone

the sickness that made ritual of coughing
poisoned christmas dinner, and the presents
and new year
the muscles taut upon the ribs from coughing
pulled to string like blu-tack, snapped
lopsiding me for days, and days

the new bad habit
of the scratch of metal keys
the catch in purple folds of flesh
with one foot on the skirting board
the shirt held in the mouth
the boxers down around the knees
the metal digging in again, again, again
the rise of rosy bump, and ****** blush

camden canal, past midnight, new year’s day:
“i deserve to die
i deserve to die”