in a bad sleep morning when cigarette smoke curls in the egg splashed kitchen and the coffee explosion frozen on the wall screams out LAZY SKANK the white-out stabs of delicate anxiety and end-times doom make the cat appear no more than some naked hungry ANIMAL silent and demanding and prowling waiting for his moment down by my shower splashed feet . . . deep inside my architecture in a safe-room bolt-hole by the storm-drains i KNOW he's Professor Cuddles/he's Catrick Swayze and means no more harm than a one-time jet of concentrated piss deep in the duvet folds and when i scoop him up he's unprotesting and i hold him close/smell his clean and fresh old-man-musk then his slow heartbeat turns the mist outside the backdoor from a cold devils blanket hiding goblin mutations into just natures decoration we can both explore
somewhere beneath the hurtling white noise of folky cover songs and hot blonde images in hair gel ads and echoed memories of any-fecking-thing from years ago/1999's cocaine park/pre-millenium tension and the crazy dreams where i change personality and colour and doorbells are all queen songs/i'm an actor/playing a runner and the two or three decades old chart hits/bad ones always bad ones and the rolling reviewing last conversations and texts and yesterdays is a voice thats me saying make coffee and crumpets and watch a dvd
who was that who woke up in dawn darkness and didnt know what breakfast was for? who was that in the black velvet blinkers with the headache surging like a riptide of mercury full of sediment of wine?
who was that hollow absence on naked and newborn legs? he travelled up the hall halfway before he heard loud his one sentient sense cry NO! he was a dark prince of a childs midnight he should have left in the rolls royce at the end of dreams but he was found surprised and walking on the ugly carpet stains of morning he didnt know what breakfast was for and he worked the telephone with his hooves
to write out your soul in simple words be it bland kitchen brews or strong strange urgent journeys or a scream gasp panting at the waxy ennui of the 11 AM or the sepia tears of yesterday nostalgia bars glowing brighter than it could ever have been then we at least make time for recollection and rummination on the hurtling blast burp of Earth 2.0 and hold tight in claws the glimpsed sails passing in long nights and the brain barked accidental insights that easily fall farted between the rushed moss cracks in the concrete spaces of home Earth 2.0