A Catastrophic Habitat
Nothing works in
my small flat –
it’s a catastrophic
habitat,
the key to the flat
won’t turn in the door,
the sign says three but
it’s really number four,
the letterbox opening’s
a millimetre wide –
the doorbell rings
but only outside,
security was fitted
with the burglar proof –
so the thieves broke in
through the leaking roof,
a fire broke out and
the smoke alarm failed,
the wall fell down when
I pulled the curtain rail,
the power cuts are frequent
so I’m often in the dark,
the cat can’t meow and
the dog can’t bark,
the stereo is broken and
the bathroom mirror cracked,
no signal on the wi-fi –
the extractor wont extract,
the microwave blew –
there’s a hole in the bin,
the ceiling fell through and
the goldfish can’t swim,
the fridge won’t close and
the cupboards don’t fit –
like my wrong-sized clothes
and the washing line split,
the rocking chair snapped
and I landed on my head,
I bounced into the bedroom
and I broke the waterbed,
the toaster burns the bread
when the settings on low –
the cork’s stuck in the bottle
and the plants won’t grow,
the vacuum cleaner won’t suck –
the light bulbs have popped,
the superglue has never stuck
and all the clocks have stopped,
they undercut the window panes –
they all have two inch gaps,
the gas pipe burst – I must be cursed –
the building just collapsed.
*
They’ll Never Know the Way We Feel
They’ll never know
the way we feel,
they’ll know our names
and what we earn –
our capital gains –
our tax return,
and what we’re worth –
our height and weight,
our place of birth –
the time and date,
our number flat –
our fixed abode,
our habitat –
our postal code,
our social links –
our network friends,
the way we think –
how much we spend,
our DNA –
the streets we go,
our resume –
the bills we owe,
our hidden scars –
our blood relation,
where we are –
our information,
star sign – if
our passport’s real –
but they’ll never know
the way we feel.
*
The Walking Dead
As children we were
so poor we couldn’t
afford funerals
or shoes even.
Corpses became
makeshift footwear.
We’d have to stick our
feet into the asses of
the dead bodies so
we could walk around.
I remember a lady asking
me why I was wearing her
mother on my foot and
not the dead man in the road.
I did try on the dead
man for size but he
had an enlarged
prostate which rubbed
against my toes.
He had goofy teeth too,
so I couldn’t put my
foot in his mouth at all.
The same lady then
asked me why I didn’t
put my foot into her
mother’s mouth instead.
I’d already tried that but
her mother was toothless
so it was a loose fit.
Then she asked me why
someone with a bigger
foot didn’t try on her
mother’s mouth.
There was a man with
the perfect foot size, but
but there were no other
corpses around for him
to wear at the time – so
he’d have looked a bit
silly with just one shoe on.
