I’m made of minutes

That tick away inside of me

that throw me up

you left

the curtains open

Eleven forty five-

I ate my heart

Out my chest;

Watched it congeal,

Squirm, and bloom

Around my fingers,

Clinging for life.

The kitsch

In the dress-

Unimpressed Empress.

Wind sweeps across

our streets

a silent city

only foxes roam.

I’m stuck

In the nighttime-

In the cracks of my ceiling-

In the yellow corridors of the hospital ward.

my skin and hers-

all four corners of the earth

sparkling some sweet lustre

that my fingers pry

and pluck like feathers.

the frog finds a gap in my skin;

it sinks below-

sits underneath, some huge bulge

which i prod

until it settles down

there's someone in my bath.

i can see him shifting

Mould is growing on my window.

Mother blames it on the

con-den-sation; water

dripping

into blurry bubbles;

Van Gough on glass, i suppose

my nose two inches from bath water.

so close

i can almost taste my own eyes

almost falling

so very almost falling

into the murk of the fog