Alcohol song scrapes cold matches rising in my head over paper sand,
buzzing flames ignite and listen to my chest.
I’m focussing hard to feel
and in my skin I settle for second best.
Distortion feeding back through one of my tools puts all attributes aside
that I am a human being
rising liquid in my mouth, rising air in my cavities, unequal make the world silent.
My eyes are open but don’t see
the white wall facing me which once spoke in garish technicolour of the television
professing rape and dragging out false catharsis.
I tried tearing over over but the match stayed hot, oblivious.
I think that the illumination did only come when my paper lamp shone
, as chemicals do,
above my head-
I could see my wall, not the engulfing, black red of my double bed. And a body.
Not just presence.
I can now at least feel solace of stinging guilt, much like a typist.
I’m enjoying the selfish over the self obsessed.
Gallons of hippopotamuses rifle through my filing cabinets
as I watch gushing mothers steer their saturated children away from the parked car.
Water rushes up to the front of my belly wall, amorphously suggesting it move
towards an organ I too often reflect
I tell it no,
treading carefully, since I am so evolved.