It is noon And I still lie in supine Under my palace of ink-stained bedding Smelling the day two aroma of the fresh sheet I stretch my limbs Toe prints pad the cave I’ve made Before retracting knee to pit Am I a happy baby? Or a lost pup Chasing the duvet’s tale instead of the day? This energy-zapping attempt to avoid That violet room we were birthed from And will consume us when the dog has had its day Under waffled wonder-cotton Where Procrastination lies Avoidance often orchestrates my own demise
Frozen no more, but chilled to perfection Remnants of Tuesday’s feast lay idle in tupperware I open and close, procrastinate, open and close Doors filled with condiments and plant milk Glass shelves stained by loose coriander and limes Every so often spring onions winter from a fickle thermostat.
there’s a blank sheet waiting on the desk once fresh veg spoiling in the fridge a mind manufacturing the great and grotesque a troll waiting underneath a bridge