standing in the crockery isle crying in Sainsbury’s
i can’t even begin to think about Christmas
or the reality of a wasp breaking out of it’s cockroach host.
we all get ill, Mary
from time to time
sometimes we don’t know how long it goes on for
and sometimes we die
but everything looks different from the top of a double decker bus
if that’s any consolation?
i wrote a list of joyous things so i could read them over and over:
animals bounding on trampolines
but nothing quite as rousing as a gradient sky
blue to white and back again
now then! it’s a proper pickle, this
a doctor-doctor untangling predicament
too many arms atop locked hands
too many limp squealing bodies
and where’s my man on the ground:
my Paul Rudd on the floor?
with his dirty river of diamond rings
flushed right down the plughole
Daniel won’t even eat anything with a face
so what are we to do about anything now?