I'm not writing
Poetry
I'm having ***
Same thing
Actually

My world does not exist
it is white
two dimensional in three dimensions
and white
colourless, reduced
only perspective in white
ropes
on and across walls
no pain
no emotions
only ROOM
the room exists
without being anything but
space
a concept
an idea
some nails
and a stack of ropes
to play God with

This room has a chair hanging from the ceiling like a parachute for escaping a burning plane, and it has another hard copy hanging from the wall. Everywhere you will find a chair. You only need to look.

I want to sleep
on the round softness
of Nina Saunders' disproportional ball

Upside down
Climbing the wall
but my dreams
are twisted

disturbed
by the dagger penetrating puberty
and the cool still life
silently killing - youth
on the surrounding walls

when skill
and agenda
are combined
with sense
of narrative