I plant forests, and they wither
behind me. There’s a traffic light
in my heart. Which colour? I don’t know.
The high-pitched whine circling my head
isn’t a vulture, it’s my halo. My double haunts me
in windows and lakes; the size of his eyes
erodes my mettle. Wherever I travel, metal
detectors go mental and the stink of burnt
sugar stalks me — crackling, always crackling.
When I fuck, my mind drifts. My whores
say it’s a lack of friction. I guess I’m made
of cold blood, my skull is full of earwigs,
my visions littered with wheezing stars:
in the mirrors on the ceiling, miracles
have ceased. I blunder across these bitter
nebulae, hemlock on my tongue — no wonder
I’ve got the sniffles! Only a nightmare
will help me sleep tonight.