Bowl

A box room,
Cardboard house,
Row upon row stamped, pressed, grey copied.
Here, poverty smells
And crime bubbles silently.
Meditation; a cradle – stilling the heartbeat slow.
They can sense a body breathing
In this home.
Where the oozing of slime, see-through and burning
Hangs from floor to fridge door.
Disinfectant thick pulls at my
Gluey white rice. Remnants a graffiti
Or stereotype
Whilst the tea towel
Wipes wetter
Strokes upon crockery glaze that cries at night.
Mechanised, upside down,
Placed aside.
The strip light buzzes
Desolate tones.
Teardrops slide down my Suicide bowl.

Now the cradle is bronze. A pipe dream –
Container of paperwhite
Yellow powder shades
That fit loose as lucid dreams.
The flame I introduce turns serpentine.
Interested, throwing licks, conversing with
The bowl and my fingertips.
Flickers fall on the shine of shapes
Predated warped corners and open centres.
Theatre masks with haunting laughs
Twirling, by the serpent, an open casket
Or hot carcass, together we play. Between
A smoke screen he digests,
I inhale deep breaths.
We are both shy and territorial.
The gauze, a stage strewn, painted white
Like rose petals
Or dripping black brown whispers.
A fairy tale.
Teardrops slide down my suicide bowl.

Brackish zips, petrol sluice,
Ripples rinse in
As dawn is spent pacing a
Public house on the hill.
Shards – mirror mirror
On the wall versatile.
Tabletops, table hops –
The cleaner, the stool.
London clay. The pickpocket- prodigal.
Softly softly
Her cradle rocks. Tick tock.
Senescence red – the modern smile.
Laughter is an echo underground,
Hung round corners. Living upon
Tiled routes braced semi-circular. Terminating
At analogue station stops
Where the jester rocks, falsity
Ringing his strings. Jangly.
Laughter sits mocking upon
Un-creased clothing and
Sole taps going somewhere.
An echo turning to cries
Skimmed inside red brick
Turquoise.
Splintered smoke frame colours
Possess a portrait of mother’s beaten riverside.
Centuries tick.click.
Thuds upwards – ace of spades.
Staircase spiral
outside. sounds of the
Knife dead mist, tool
Of the river, tightening warbling.
Pulling through knot work shadows
Sharpened by haunts of a curlew downstream.
I collect the touching of bridges
Upon rivers.
Queen of hearts.
Teardrops slide down my Suicide bowl.

Picture by Annie Spratt (Unsplash)

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