In Pieces, in Prozac
It may have been the wet of bodies
Peeled the chloroform from the jar,
It may have been my spent cock
Split the hung canvas sea and
Turned my vision into streams.
traffic streaked and stopped
in front of weeping lights
blurred from red to green then back again,
bicycles as scattered strangers
dotting spaces cattle on wire
veins pumped ink
into open mouth of night
scrawled as tumbling scree,
dinner plates floating sunwards
teethed cutlery flames in the wine
Touch curtains and cupboards &
Touch the neurosis of an edgy City.
I should’ve picked up the phone and called someone, but
Nerves and wires were disconnected,
The numb pillow
Italicised my short comings,
Were nothing but an invitation
To learning the art of communication, alone.