Untitled

Living room dropped. me. Off
here
café of the kind you get in shopping centres say they're
looking for your next show every stranger here has tickets for the unannounced you
there are
hands offered under mugs. Passer by eyes
looked like a departed hearse and
feet on the ground, we're sure we're breathing still
feeling a hotel crawling up the inside of a knee it won't be long (black toothpick teeth
to churn a sound machine) We're sure you're breathing still
there's just this sense
you're getting worse maybe you should think about going back to the
and expression is such a chore

delivered to the kitchen. I wonder where you begin,
I feel I'm carved off the Sunday chicken
a strip of meat flapping free from the earth and I tried but I
just can't paint any more, said,
an exhibition of room minds with a ping pong ball bouncing from height to sinking
I just don't
know
what relevance sight has any more kettle always clicks down what it said
and I'm staring at my worktop hands thinking they don't contain anything
should they contain anything
will they contain anything
do I have to make that happen or anything other than steam pedestrian crossing where
I fall through a human cattle grid and besides what would I say
a description of me would lack everything there's a dream where
I go from town to town with a decapitated head in a box
telling everyone it's a bird. It'll sing like a bird.
You watch.

Slippers. They're holding something. And I
am holding something. In. She's coming again in a fortnight

to see the show. As much as she wants to watch the floorboard quiver like a bottom lip spilling
dry ice
cataracts set free to fog
there's nothing

I've got nothing

I've got nothing

I've got nothing

then show the slippers. They're holding something, here, says me. I am
just what you hold. No more

Claps her hands, there's a talking signboard and I
I am just a severed head in a box

(her hands scream
It'll sing like a bird
It'll sing like a bird
It'll sing like a bird

You watch)

You watch,

I am