I poo clouds

I poo clouds

A milk bottle bubble of anxiety flobs up
and makes fret with my solar plexus.
My fingers on the desk, horse cluck
at an umbilical cord taught
across the country.

Two little hands pledge between sternum and lung
and make a space for the draft
which like sick splitting, or an appendix
newspaper writ with adverts, is acrid.

And the draft makes me centimetres up off my seat
and into Emma’s room
where we sit and make ‘meh’ mouthfuls
out of incident;

the pigeon I saw run dead
by a remote control Tomy,
or the 3 demented banshee friends
that came running up round your bike
when you walked across the avenues
swinging your satchel and humming Bjork bass bits.

And we say the tea plugs into the draft,
so you can see
chair legs and children’s toys
sticking up out the stomach steam.

We are a soundtrack,
and when we dunk biscuits, the cars outside come in
and we are crashed,
covered in bruised raisons
lying on a hessian backed reed mat.

The tannin’s left a scratch
somewhere in the sternum
a muscle wedge, turns left
and you are in bed, thinking the cord
must be growing thin.