SUNDAY MORNING

old white dub thumps in here
and drilling continues next door
like theyre building an ark in there
for
two of every asbo and hoodie and celebrity.

coffee
battles
the
low fug from the nights quick death
packed
with
technicolour dreams left there
so the day can breath
and
outside
the
sky is dishrag grey with a slow glow
uniform
and low.

the Machiavellian paper machines blend now
like ant armies scaling soil heaps
with the scribbled and desperate to-do lists
and
fight
for
space
in
un-rested and isolated and alien tight-knot lobes.

i form an embryonic black and white plan for the slow day
with a slender window for tackling the panic that waits
in the Outlook inbox
then
visit
my small bathroom
where the dirty tasks are simple and splashed with cool water,
calming 
under fluorescents where silver fish shine 
between cat hairs like spiders legs 
and caterpillars of fluff dull and dim under the door
and all the promising tubes.

essential and mundane; i will empty myself there
and
drag steel across my face.

am'n.