jones
i left my head at the threshold; one missed
dose and i’m evicted from earth, left to
eavesdrop from a time—worn liminal space—
the placenames replaced by grooved cutlery,
the paths overgrown with locked bedroom doors.
tears in my ears. a pineapple ring moon.
i tap the world like a ripe fruit, on a
soapbox of blister packs, the—ines and—pams
and –clones – magic words typewritten on
pink paper. mile-markers back to the ground.
given the choice, i would always go back
to steady scales over full tilt boogie.
the glass to the wall, my ear to the glass,
waiting for the foil-wrapped tokens to drop.
02.04.2023
