Wednesday.
England.
i work the hospital again. thinking . . .
the
vivid
raids
are random visions/the orphan concepts
are
undiagnosed . . .
. . . it’s alright ma, i’m only thinking/frowning to headaches.
they
happenfast as riptides/sudden as rain/uneasy
as
old magazine waiting rooms/thin cushions hard
on
the
window bench.
and
the
thick fluids inside me
will
spill
out
again
in all the
pre-arranged spaces.
so normal/but feel less than whole.
cliché answers are van-man talk radio.
Home.Wednesday.
England.
sit in my adequate pile/lucky/alone.
just
another
risen
pyjama
awake before murder.
attempted art is burning boats drifting downstream
because
today . . .
Wednesday.
England.
Home.
. . . the werds are bolted up
behind autumns
red
dead
doors.
Wednesday.
England.
Bathroom.
pour a cheap drink/run a hot bath
over all
the fluff and all the woodlice
and all the nameless long hairs
knowing/hoping/needing
my
insistent dark daydreams
to
melt into old comfy shoes
and
the
candlelight
flickers and spits
on
dirty
tile.
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