…The radium clock dial in the sky was dialling a
10 o’clock ringtone. The morning chorus was a static caravan
Of expanded polysterene. Street streamers warbled
In the autonomic carpal tunnels of the workers shuffling off
Conveyances of pubic transport. The dead end clapper boards
Determined the sutures of this persistent derealisation
And you could almost sync yourself back up.
Sadly, like a bad billboard poster job
Your smile will just have to look wonky for the remainder of the month
The national anthem is remembered somewhere by a fox
Doing over a wheelie bin. It takes no heroes.
The level tone is tinnitus in your semi-circular canals
Their locks/quays full of drowned cilia.
There’s no policemen to dredge those bottoms
The Dr informed you. The coroner’s won’t ever
Return an open verdict. All those sonic frequencies
You murdered. You kid yourself they submerged themselves willingly.
Like busts of the unnamed dead you can only imagine them
Your head sets like a cement overcoat
Every now and then. It lands like an anvil at your feet.
There is no cure. Only bedrest. And the possibility of praying.
You are told to avoid waltzes and rollercoaters
You feared them as a boy and a teenager
Now you have an excuse you want to go.
The bucket list just got smaller
It was rewritten. It was out of your hands.
You were never one for music anyway.