On the first day, God screwed the light bulb in and flicked the switch.
Afterwards, he made you; and kicked his feet up on the couch
to let you finish it all off. On the second day, you made everything
grey turn green. For a while, God had assumed himself colour-blind,
and watched with envy as the world sprouted beneath you, the light
given something to look at.
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Silence. Peace. Panic.
Our steel shell sinks into the abyss
As we glide unseen through yielding waters.
Three inches from death with our world-ending weapons
Hidden away, an apocalypse at our fingertips, waiting for the call.
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You whispered to me once
That the sunlight looked so good on my skin,
Toasted with a tint of caramel,
Your favourite sight to wake up to
In the morning.
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Born not of night’s fall on the sea you,
No, borne to land a living pearl not
You, not stormy daughter, nor gold apple eater,
Not willow-bodied, trapped beneath nets heaving.
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The clock on the wall is broken. It chokes backwards, its voice cracking. He sits in the armchair. I don’t know where I am.
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On my chest of drawers,
the record player is mute,
its needle still in the groove
after it stopped turning…
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