matchbox and silicone

i staggered like a bistro piller
clutching a flat can in a hand
and a matchbox in the other,
the veins in my eyes
pulsated a little

i stepped on broken glass
on broken silicone balls
and on broken egg shells

and i lurched in,
. . . .and out
of senseless rooms
full of senseless contraptions
vomiting things made
out of silicone

in stairways, corridors
behind white plinths
and in between doors

searching all my pockets
full of tobacco crumbs and wrappers,
looking for the last match lying
maybe at the bottom

i want to know why you're all here,

why?

the deaf talkers,
the buyers
the sellers
the matchbox lovers

and you- what-

with limbs clustered
into themselves against
the wall and the floor,

for a moment
the world seemed so small.