Chicken n' Box

 

Chickenpox.

Got it.

It's out there.  Somewhere.

Beware... 

 

I thought I would never get it. I thought it was an allergy. I thought I was Superwoman. I am locked in my tower and princesses bring me food. Flatmates. I look a bit like this: 

 

Spiders

 

I can see them in the imaginarium of my mind.

Their thin black legs spread out like a hand.
Sometimes thick, dark.
Impossibly long-legged. Sharp.
In old spaces. In melancholic rooms disused by time.
I see them sometimes. Outside.
On windows and porches.
I see them in gardens,
hanging on invisible bridges between plants.
I see them on palms of brave hands.
I see them one, two, three climbing
spiders in a song.
I see them too menacing for lullaby.

This Perfect Life - Take Two

My perfect life.

Take Two.
Brand new.
Same old. Same old.
Exciting. For a bit. There. Not anymore. No. Same old. Same shit.
My perfect life.
Today. Yesterday.
Imperfect in places, not new. Never new. Not now. Not anymore. Gone. Already. Gone.
Bye Bye.
So it goes. There is goes, imperfect. Human, life.
Human.
Imperfect always.
Claws, jawbone, bone cage full of hopes.
Empty windowsill.
Theatre place. Market place. Stupid pseudonym. Dance. A choir of ghosts. Papertowel. Just a mess.
All.
My perfect life. Take two.
Action…
And he sits and he sighs.
And distractedly she looks. In a mirror. A pigeon flies south. Not a duck, nor a goose this time.
He sits and he ponders. He makes a mess with a tiny spoon in a cup of coffee.
Stir stir stir. Make a mess. Stir. Stir.
Sugar not included. Batteries not included. Instructions not included. Truth not included.
Action.
This perfect life.
Ah, sighs a paper tree, a mess, a pigeon, a dance of geese flying south.
Cut.

Cut now.

 

 

My Perfect Life-

(For Eddy)

My perfect life.

Dreamt somewhere south.
Centre stage, left. Enters him.
My perfect life.
Imaginary encounters, train stations and posters on walls.
Imaginary cups of coffee, morning rituals, teeth brushing, three eggs on a pan.

Omelet.

My imaginary lie.
Ten thirty, shower time. Ten fifty four, pot of fruit, tv time.
He sits, he tries, he rests his head, he sighs.
My perfect life.
North Williamsburg of somewhere impossible.
Your nest. Your head. Against mine.
Your heart. Not here. Not awake. Now.
No, not now. Not yet.

Maybe. Now?

My perfect life. Was it?

Spanish lessons  before bed-time.
Orange juice. Berry. Elevator. Taxi ride. Theatre making. Love making. Not. Now.
My eccentric lie. Lies ahead. Behind.
Cold breeze, cold hand. Cold stare. At a glance.
Rule of thumb.
If it doesn’t happen. Now.

My imaginary. Perfect, misused life.