At the hairpin bend,
My right side shifting to the left,
Sinking, gasping for breath,
A turtle rolling over in my head.
Neck deep in a quagmire,
Tucked in like in a bed,
Caught in a minefield sleepwalking,
And not very nearly dead.
A bedroom vanishes overnight
And I wake up in the attic,
A memory maligned and drugged out,
Now suddenly painfully didactic.
Last night, in the candles’ lies,
I had spiders for dinner.
Confused like an Irish batsman
at the sight of a spinner.
Isn’t this the worst hangover,
sugary, coated with love,
Wake me, take me, make me vanish,
Oh sweet mother of God above.
I took a bubble bath in a borrowed mirage,
And walked into my trap laughing.
All this will end, at the hairpin bend,
In the comfort of my own coffin.