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