Monday, 25 May 2015


Becomes an accustomed action
With parental aggression
I open my eyes a fraction, for the call
‘Go to bed’.
My back to the wall, knees pressed
To my head
I have broken the room
The lamp harbours shade
The day becomes dregs
The pelt on the plaid.

For I stare at the red cotton
 Cast on the carpet
Like a  splashed actress

Sounds like a fine material
When you let the words fall
On your own skin
I forget
 How I open my grin
In all its incision.

Curtains hide the disgrace
That I
Have learned nothing

For ‘bed’ becomes a dial
Replacing the eye
Not meant to have vision
Not yet
At this time of night.

It is half past eleven
My fingers pass through the ply
Of pixelation
For now I am really myself
 A mistress

Or is this a child
With bed still an address
Where the spine lies, embryonic curve
Of bed below body
Waiting for the verbs?
The pulse like a damp drum

But nothing ripens.

Screwing time
Lying into the morning
Still assumed to be night
With a smile undeceiving
-          Ah those tokens of truth
But the parents have spoken

The eyes are hidden

For another evening . 

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