Alone in the night
his amber light
is a swirling crystal ball.
The stereo sings
about a bat-faced girl,
but the phone has nothing to say.
The red rose wilts,
the standard lamp tilts
and interrogates the room.
The chair tfolds me tight
while the walls spin around
and the paint runs down my face.
The picture frames
are on the game,
the hearth-rug is rolling its own.
The man on the telly
tries to keep a straight face
but it all keeps sliding away,
and the crystal glass
smashed on the hearth
foresees tomorrow for me.
MISSING PIECES
She argues like a child
tearing the wings off a fly:
watching me struggle
with macabre delight,
undoing me with logic
beyond my reach.
She dismembers me
limb by limb,
and the pieces that were me
spin helplessly in circles
under her mocking mouth.
I grope around the floor to
put my self back together.
As always there are
pieces missing.
