Nothing happens, Only the kettle boiling. Steaming poetical remains O’er late morning Wallpaper tides.
Feel Uma’s voice as first Snow of a nuclear winter Flushed against my cheekbone. Drifting from soapy suds, soliloquy, Watching seagull guard her nest Of the most precious, The voice sings to me in twelve languages. The cutlery is now pristine.
The furniture sits In misplaced harmonies, Valley choir of cloth and wood.
The Smiths poster hangs over Flag of St David, lightly dusting Pyres...
As foundling, unfurnished from birth - Incubator of little consequence - Someone left me in an emptying bar Curtained like wingless flies… In slips of space temporarily Air, not glass nor reflective Rouge of barmaid lipstick. Voices spoke from shore of other chairs.
Poured warm wine stilled my mouth The eyes, perhaps, of one burst berry; A sudden symphony of an often laid But hey conductor! Never played.
If then was a hook for my hang-ups, Today is a twin boomed elevation Above the wheels, beneath bone doors, ...
When death calls, Will you be prepared? Or will you want to stay Just one more day? When death calls Will you know just what comes next? Or will you wonder if it will be something to dredge? When death call, Will others miss you? Or will they be glad that you’re finally dead? When death calls, What mark have you made? Or will you have wishes of shoulda, coulda, wouldas? For when death do call, Do we really know what’s happens? Or does it really matter?