Here

Seen an inky sky split by the flash
Of lightning in the valleys of the moon?
That’s what it’s like in here:
Something strange, nonsensical,
No sense in here at all.
And the faces come and go
Lit by the lightning
In a moment of clarity
And then I forget them:
White masks in black skies –
And they’re laughing
And screaming
Like the Greek tragedies
In bloodied robes.
That’s what it’s like in here:
Something silly and searing,
And it burns along the wires.
 
It’s like photographs.
Scatter the photographs across the wood
And flutter through them
And the blade whispers
Along a serrated edge.
Rip them into pieces;
Force them back together
And here you are.
Welcome, come inside,
That’s what it’s like in here.
 
Film reels that split
And the hole burns inside out
And the picture shakes and –
And I can’t find the word.
But I’m here, in the dark
Of the cinema screen
And there’s no one in the audience but me
Because they all left a thousand years ago,
And there’s popcorn on the ceiling
And lightbulbs in the floor.
 
I leave the screen with which
The world looks in.
Walk away to the storeroom
With the windowless door
And shut myself away in the dark
Because you can’t see me here.
If I can’t see you, you can’t call me
And draw me out again
And that’s what it’s like in here.
 
I am a child’s room: messy and spilt,
Stained in sticky juices
And ready to rot and die.
I am a storm in a teacup in the world
And the ceramic is buckling under the water
And the flood is coming
But I’m the only one to drown.
I am nothing, in the end,
In the grand scheme of things,
And I smile at that in my closet,
Hidden away like yesterday
And that is what it’s like here.