In wee-small hours it’s hard to decipher
cat calls. Sometimes my owl and fox
get wire crossed. Son and bed make exchange
one/big/too/small size impossibility. I
have a head full of ego. Or
no identity whatsoever. LHR is

too damn noisy (even w/out its 5th runway
& despite denials of night flights.) Wind, im
pending storms, The Royals, all make roar
come a-this-a-way. Phut goes my friendly
poltergeist: a light bulb falls onto a bit a
ruggéd floor. Oh thanks matey! Switches

on laundry for me. Dryer drawls
mercy mercy mercy through cottage walls. Shit.
If only It could co-opt the crease cycle.      A
votive flickers on minor spiritual quest,
breathlezzz softly softly lest Mary
gets heebyjeebied by fire. I’ve hired

Phenergen in ages:6-12 dosage and mommy’s
little yellow helper in 5mg.pop. Milk.
I sloppit down my nightie. T’night I’m
Panto Barbie (a little over-aged but ROC’d).
I should’na done my ArtsandLettersDaily
                                                 thang – – – links

drop blue blueline blue blueline at least Phd. level
terrorists, identifits, security forces, alerts on and on
and on the world chatters threats at me.
There’s diarrhoea down my white space. Oh God.
Here am I with no face on, my baby drugged,
my lousy childhood unpreparing me for intimacy

on any meaningful level, with only a ghost
for company. Not even any dead flowers
to throw out. Or dogs to shout at.
Who scarpered over an hourago and by now
have probably legged the A380, a machine full’a
shrivelled smalls and a Px for a shorn-off shot

gun in my dresser draw.
I should be so lucky.
Target practice: start with ‘News at Ten’,
gotta be. Then now, let’s see: blast his
immaculate lawn next door full of holes.
Leave a few rounds for the ex.

Brigitte Jones Diary looks like ‘How To
Prepare for Sainthood’ compared to this.
There was that programme on TV last
week about women just like me and it
would have been funny but we’re the lucky
ones.

All I have to do is
Rest,
Breathe,
Focus on My Heart Space,
Do a little Chakra Massage,
Check My Child’s Still Breathing,
Remember

there’s a glass bomb waiting to be stepped on
in the dark, oh And a ten ton pressurised
explosive can flying overhead (below the permitted
decibel level of course). My doggies

‘ll be fox-pooh nerve gas.
Ollie the Owl’s bird-prick large
enough to shut-the-fuck up Mrs. Owl.
The men are in charge.
At least one of us is screwed.
Tiddles will have spewed up rat caul.
Ah all’s well that has any end at all.



©2006 by AnnMarie Eldon