I consume too much grease, too much processed mass-produced capitalism.

Everything should be done in quantities that are bad for you;

Drink a litre of own-brand energy drink, of vodka, of watered-down whisky.

Everything I inhale is bad for me.

The media pushes information through my brain and out the other side

My ear’s bleeding fake news over a cream leather sofa.

I chase cars down the street, cats through houses, teenage smokers into alleys.

When the paper pulls away from the wall I buy more wallpaper paste.

My pen bled through an entire notebook when the explosion occurred.

The walls shake and I see the cracks again.

If you punch another hole in the wall I think the whole house might fall.

I’m calling from the top of Scarborough bridge

My whole childhood exists beneath my  feet and behind my eyelids.

You’re smoke in my lungs and cancer in my throat.

My fists only know how fight my mirror image.

Blue flashes on the bed room walls. Epileptic fits of ticking clocks.

I’m crawling into my bed of eggshells.

There is no warmth in the way the eggs crack beneath my weight.

I close my eyes because my walls are crumbling.

Tomorrow I will buy yellow wallpaper.


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