This nameless potted specimen
          appears about to die.
Perhaps the wilted, browning stem
          (thank God it cannot cry)

is starving for a richer soil,
          or just a larger ***.
(A plant needs little room to toil,
          but even less to rot.)

Perhaps the shriveled leaves need light
          uncut by mini-blinds,
or air that’s not conditioned quite
          so centrally by minds

averse to nature’s crude extremes
          (the spice of a plant’s life).
And what bird’s song, like human screams,
          cuts through roots like a knife?

Cured salmon glistening
between thick seeded slices.
Three plump tomatoes.
Like castle guards.

I watch in awe:
my toes poke through
knitted holes in the
blanket, fleshy moles.

Nan pushes in The
Thornbirds VHS and
she rambles about
the birds going west.

She says: ‘I’m glad
I can stay here and
not fly anywhere.’
cosy and safe.

Nan places another fleece
blanket on me. We drink
dark hot cocoa and
watch birds from the sofa

Domestic life, wouldn’t it be nice,
wine in hand, topped with ice.
Your hair shining ginger in the sun,
at the BBQ, loading sausages in buns
as our son screams and trips over. Twice!

On Thursday we lounge and eat egg-fried rice,
all we do is laugh and you say: 'This is Paradise.'
Then we shout over cake, it’s overdone!
Domestic life.

You see my tears and hug me, feels nice.
You’re still the man with the best advice.
So take me to Harvester, just for fun,
then we talk in funny voices to our sweet son.
Let’s drink more wine we bought half price.
Domestic life.

I do not understand
Why he sabotaged me so consummately,
And made me look like  
Such a pathetic old patsy,

Could he not discern the misery
He was shoring up by degrees,
Over the course of the years
For the self he would ultimately be?

It was perforce a former version of me,
Who led me to this place
Of near-incessant mourning,
A narcissistic anomaly,

Who never wanted the precious gifts
Of peace and domesticity,
The little ones that might have been,
He spirited them all away from me.

stepford wife, smile bright
cook, clean, fix, listen, shine
a trophy, prize, conquest
overused, underloved, broken, dies
unassembled puzzle, incomplete
pieces an unclear fit, break
silent muzzled, scattered, quit
exhausted, out is in a box
for puzzles, games, like little talk
brought to shelved bars, stay
viewed only, never touched
succumb, suffocate, decay

The relentless clock ticks
like a pseudo heartbeat,
prattling platitudes
of sententious pity.
Two decades summons pragmatism:
a mouth to kiss,
a place to eat, to ****
and shove like lambing ewe.
Set it in stone at twenty-five;
a diamond glares from Facebook,
a Gorgon eye, a quick click analgesic.
Marry overborne bricks
and surrender nature’s piquancy
to kitchens where flies ****
on all the dinners not savoured.
Probe for passion in drains,
Tupperware, between stale sheets.
Aridity resists fornication
in a ***** for absent frisson;
a stretch across oceans,
portenous as premature world-weary yawns,
Three syllables ought to roll easily
yet sear acidic, two tongues curtailed
and bourne back into silence.

Three syllables should roll easy,
yet sear acidic the tongue,
refusing formation
of empty expression.

The sun shines no brighter
than the struggling bedside light,
and rivers flow no fresher
than saliva leaked in sleep.

The malodour of rank roses
drifts from every kitchen,
where flies **** on dishes
of all the dinners not savoured.

Inside we search for desire; in drains,
under beds, between stale sheets. 
The arid well resists fornication
as we ***** for absent frisson,

the floral miasma lingering,
as if to scoff.

I want to live in a big house
In the middle of a big town
And in my big house
In the middle of a big town
I want to bake biscuits in my big kitchen
And feed them to my friends
Who come to visit my big house
In the middle of a big town

My Baby's gone fishing
I hope he catches himself a treat
For us both to eat
And when he comes back home
I'll make him a meal
Of bread and butter

Have you been shredded
By the tenacity
Of your alcoholism
Yet,

Or will we have to funnel
More worldly atrocities
Into you,
Filling you to bursting?

The swish in your belly,
The boldness of your talk;

Decimated.

Let me be the one
To **** all you are
With my well-kept home
And all-American children.
Let me poison you
With my son and husband's baseball game,
My seasonal dish towels.

Let me tear your being
With my baby
Who doesn't even suffer a diaper rash,
With my laundered and ironed clothes.

Let me destroy you in domesticity,
A cold beer at the end of the day
And too many addictions
Kept hidden.

Let me dismantle your establishment
While I bear my blemishes under the skin.

Let me break your concentration.

Let me make you think
I am perfect.
Let me make you think
That my family is sound.

Let me convince you
That you mean nothing
To the world
If only because
My children will be more intelligent
and more well kept
Than the one you poisoned.

Let me be
The Stephen King novel,
Bruce Springsteen song,
All-American house wife
And let me be kept far,
Far away from You,
Dazed and Confused
And depressed and medicated,
You.