ELECTRIC JOCKEYS RACE WOODEN HORSES:
Bus bunk dreams, shook rude. Awake, a stagger through HMS customs,
smile under abandoned hair & gratitude. Passports clutched with
stickerred names for the idiots of the morning. Sweet smells at
boarder crossing, the hole beneath the sea opens up & swallows us
whole. Spits us out on dry land, concrete, wires & chevrons.
Dumped with bags & sunken eyes on wheels, the shuffle to the rank,
the postcode & pin. Phone call home to let the folks back in the
Midlands know Her Majesty has let us all back in.
Now I’m lying in the arms of Mother Essex, showered, scrubbed &
porridged. Micro-waved from the middle out, heat behind the eyes.
Half words stumbling from a stupid mouth. Images with names swirl,
gas clouds escape synaptic connections that would otherwise know
their names. Thin ice thoughts skeletal formed should never be
spoken, regretting their escape in seconds. Linear thinking,
blinkered, runs on rails, looks neither left nor right. Don’t ask
too many questions of a man who wakes in a house of cards, the
consequence is yours, with love. Slip a black tea under my nose
instead & watch the lips curve the corners.