Skid
Sleep is my boyfriend,
my mother, my boss.
It tells me
disjointed stories – news
of the night
world.
I am walking on the fragile
bodies of dolls.
No I’m not!
It’s something else:
‘A sentimental journey
through a doomsday scenario.’
Then we’re back
with the anger re-enactors
hired to grease the skids.
Flame
In the midst of the evident collapse,
I’m bored. What is there left
to say, I say.
I could make a flame
sound like the flick
of a lizard’s tongue,
then like a human
skating
on a pond
of hot wax.
I can’t say
burning oil,
but I can make you think it.
There.
Don’t think of that old canard,
‘Don’t think of an elephant.’
Do you like the word
‘lissome?’
Shall we fall in love
with the small transparent
dancing girl? Call her
Tinker Bell?
Image © Takuma Nakagawa
