LIVING ROOM TABLE

some god’s simple silent

rage of syrup is sliding 

over 

shining and glowing 

wet glass bricks

they rattle

and down it falls like amber Rickenbach

j. cash flips

his middle finger 

at me from the photo on the magazine

slim and spaced and beautiful 

mechanical limbic paws

grasp glass gently 

they

are 

drinking 

for me/i am only watching the

stylised scatter of smokes 

and pills and pots and pens

in here

on the table

i'd hide under when i was 4

there’s dirt smeared on the military shaving mirror

and my middle finger/well practised

is

flying 

the Bird

at only me and everything

in flat reflection

a filthy rolled up 20

rimmed in white and red 

is rolling around

because the window is wide open

for

the company

of hovering minibeasts

and

a wind is

gliding

in

tomorrow

i will spend it

for sure