I want it to stop. This tendency to bring down everything
into the mayhem of blister packs and bottles.
Maybe I shall hang it all from ropes of twitchy synapses
that spasm and writhe until my lips go blue.
I razed the summer, buried the autumn under a gin-palace
threw a fit and tore the world apart
gave myself a stiff gait and an uncontrollable tic just below
my right eye. I want it to stop
so pray for a clamp on a ruptured artery and count out
the tablets that will prove you were wrong. I draw a little face of you
and slash the page
until I slip and cut my fingertip and everywhere there is
blood, bottles, dirty clothes and irreducible chaos.
My phone battery is dead, bottles are empty
the mourner takes sedatives and closes its eyes
with its own thumbs.
Tomorrow there will be stations and polystyrene coffee cups
it knows these things and turns off the light.
