I’ve a Monday in my eye,
Bloated and cancerous,
Sipping from my vision and obscuring
The limpid cell I built myself,
With skinless walls and curtained bars.
I’m disappointed with my depression,
It promised to deal with the ghost I abandoned on the tube
And melt the cystic snow that sticks to my face...
But it hasn’t... and the evening
Has misaligned itself across the ceiling,
Swollen and wheezing, its clouds unmoving -
Unbleachable and violent on the white-washed surface
That bubbles beneath my nails.
City dreaming is better than country dreaming,
I was told by an old drunk pressed into a doorway crack.
The walls were better listeners he reasoned,
As we surveyed the neon night:
The moths trying to find salvation in the burn of a bulb,
The crow smuggling stones beneath its wings
After a one night stand with death...
And the candles...
Crying wax tears whilst slowly eating themselves into
Nonexistence.
Anubis sighed when he found me,
Drifting around alleyways trying to get lost,
My pockets filled with sand, hands dripping ink -
Prints graffitied onto the brickwork canvas of a sharp city.
My travels were futile... and so I headed home,
Discarding the wrung out towel I’d used to mop the brow
Of a London in labour,
Birthing discontent and skeletal stars
As the Thames devoured the corpse of summer
And dribbled the sun along its chest.
I’m back to my window.
Though it’s starving and bored of its view,
Refusing to take the crumbs I feed it
When surfing the sill to see if the ground has gotten any closer.
I sit here... a tree with no roots,
Clutching to an empty coffee mug that consumes
The table-skyline hovering beneath my wooden fingers-
A great civilization of shadows and light-specks
Weaving around the pencil-buildings.
My leaves were displaced by the wind and my skull unlocked-
Brain replaced with a hive of bees
Who hide the alphabet behind their swords and whispers,
And tell me I must keep guard,
For you can’t trust the ants or people-flies...
They’ll eat the sky and swallow the sea if left unattended.
