laying in a lukewarm bath,
it is the bath of the world.
but i can only see
the blue grey sky
pouring weird June floods
because i am stretching out
in the bath of the world.
stretching out and not
sweating yet.
mayhems probably rioting
beyond the quiet toiletries
dusty on the windowsill tile.
people are flying out there and
birds are hurtling
reflected in the shiny dirty walls.
hurtling like when they were falling all mad
on the fresh bread i'm putting out.
THERES PLENTY BIRDS!
i'm saying to them,
BIG BIRDS DON’T BULLY SMALL BIRDS TODAY!
theres people out there
flying . . .
and
suddenly humble
i'm placing a flannel over my essential bits,
my bits of the world,
bobbing in the bubbles.
i cover the shocking hair
and the spot on my hip
fades low in my pant-line.
it is like Gursky meets Bosch in here.
clarity fighting abundance for my headache.
how would it be if she was in here,
in the bathroom of the world
shocked by my hair
feeding me Swedish chocolate
for this headache-
this headache of the world?
but
i only relish the thought
of the shop new underwear
waiting crisp and unstained on the bed.
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