Morning Haiku

The rose of toilet paper
swirls in my falling piss.

Have you shut the door to pretend that everything is alright, or how are you? How do you cope? Have you spread a bag of soil on a tray and put it next to your bed, to dig your feet into a dream of gardens in the morning, before brewing the nightmare of reality with a hint of that white smoke and the milk of liquid illusions? Or did you just buy a hundred oranges, to sit in a marble game and try not to fall asleep, catching the mould as it grows and blossoms? Have you made some coffee? Turned your eyes into chocolate? Gone insane with the hullabaloo of dammed love and drunk memories? In any case I hope you’re doing alright, that the weather changes and that we can soon being to crawl, to kiss the carpets, to colour our time, and gather in the middle of empty junctions to eat our cereal together.

Stormbreather

Trumper and Dumper and Donald and Duck

  bought a marina to change their bad luck;

listen, said Trumper to Duck as they drove,

  if I start floating I won’t stay above –

if I start floating I won’t be the sea,

  so I’ll sink to the bottom

           and make it all rage for me.

your fingers can break your fingers –
  remember that; love is not any act of love