The fat clock ticks and ticks and ticks and tells
Me stuff I didn’t want to know I knew.
Across a million billion windowsills
The stellar dust is whispering of you.
A Balkan website that I can’t access
Texts messages to the Uranian rings.
Since Tuesday last American Express
Are threatening unimaginable things.
A changeling with an enormous head,
A forky tail and huge, prehensile claws,
Is swinging at the bottom of my bed
And doesn’t seem to want to stay indoors.
Call me. I’m waiting for your call. What’s done
Is done. There’s nothing here for anyone.
From 14 No 11 (Feb 2011)