My body glove.

Lonely moments sitting in a room: staring at a papered wall with a little window of white in its center. A lonely lamp sits in the middle of the room; digging a hole in the dark; silhouetting a man sitting on a white tin chair – the chair punctured with fickle holes like rips in paper.

Jump into the man’s head; through the tunnel forming in his forehead. Wander deeper; slide deeper; run deeper; dig deeper into his head; into his forehead and cranium into memories those cringing moments – suck at the marrow of it. An elephant barking from its cage; cage breaks; it runs through hedges and gardens to get to you- you. The smells of unwashed clothes; sights of condoms used and stretched wrapped in toilet paper stapled to the wall.

Lying in a bath trying to forget who you are. Trying to forget that you have to go on living after you leave the waters edge. Try and forget who entered the bath: let the water try and drown you; smother and entice you.

Dripping. There is a hollow sound in your ear. You listen to your breath sucking in your surroundings. Waking up to find that you didn’t go to sleep.

It breaks with the exhale and you come out through that orifice and you drip out onto the plaid floor. Sockets run from the walls into his face: a social music plays on his spine; custard churning in his head. Drool drips as he sits like a wet towel staring back into his mind. The walls crawl with insects that settle in the corners. Why the corners? The violet tiles turns titanium white as his mother’s face starts forming and begins a conversation about how the woman next store keeps asking to borrow cigarettes but doesn’t smoke - I know mum, I hate her too. He tilts his head back and it hangs in dead weight, letting his eyes settle, a little white clay man runs along the roof in an abundant glee – I wonder how long has he be there mum? She rabbles on, you look at her but can’t make out her face she talks but just static comes out but he smiles anyways.

As the man starts growling laughing crying, the little boy stops to look down, look up at the man in the chair. Just a puddle, a scoop of ice cream left on the chair with punctured holes. The little boy holds his stare as the man begins to scream. He falls slowly like a horrible drop of cold glue down onto the man’s dry face. The man’s tilts his head like a docile beast, dragging the air and dust that surrounds his head along with his vision.


The lone mattress with the scarlet sheets lays idle beside the papered walls. Newspapers yellow with age plastered with time against wall. Green and yellow-checkered carpet trains along the floor only to crawl up the walls like vines. A single window, the size of a man’s foot – a few inches deep, an old air-vent maybe - the exit to the outside world. Black and blacker fills it.

A bag of coal sits in the corner on fire. A plate with three pints of water in it. Coils of string wrapped in shoes. Pebbles and sunflowers – I miss you poah. A dinner plate with turkey slices carrots broccoli and a scoop of titanium white paint. A bottle of green, and a sock of orange and yellow.

A plaice - a large edible flat-bodied fish that lives in European seas and has brown skin with red or orange spots, its Latin name: Pleuronectes patessa – sits and takes notes. A child and his Woman; god and its lobster. That’s all I want for chirstmas.