Saturday Night and Sunday Morning Sickness

My skin is a pile of potato peeling
Translucent as a (thousand year) dead star.

Ballerinas of broken glass sail the washing-up bowl
Clink as chunks of stolen diamonds
                                                   thumping in my chest.

Shores of Victorian-slate twilight
Mist poverty perfume onto neck of the day.

Blue ambulance lights breach against the streetlamps,
Blinking awake the sullen séance with eventides.

Kettle fountain spurts up towards some kind of heaven,  
Reflecting briefly as sunlight in a black and white film.

We love thriftily in small coin,
Halfway between hearth and her.

Archaeologists will unearth bones clutching metal kettles
Snapped brass’ed wedding rings wrapped in baby clothes
 
The dripping tap drizzles
‘stay with me ‘til morning’

As ‘Burton’ & ‘Taylor’ kiss on a Poundland sofa
Under the glower of their crying flock and splintered Christ.

God mutes the girl who sings for her supper, we(l)ds
Sad veiled bride to foundry and alcohol fists.

We drift in the outline of black and solid hills,
Stretching beyond seagull’ed shit rooves.
/
Always waiting for the night to fly
                                         Rather than to fall.