tim-burton-bakerRing, Ring, Ring,
Except it’s 2017 your phone is set on silent you do not own an answering machine
from the nineties, accidentally recording overheard conversations
little tape cassettes, the mechanics listening, catch you shouting
the message goes ‘don’t leave a message’ followed by alliteration
doe ray me fa la tee
people dial-in, listen, to cacophony
whose house is this? what party line? her voice can you hear
it’s someone singing in the background
taping over
you quote the silence with your abstract
lying like a fallen star on the kilim rug
the cat nudges your head he knows you are not dead
would that you could warm yourself up like leftovers
swallow whole emptiness, banish that gut of bile
back then I recorded myself, how stupid it seems now, a voice in the comforter
what did I impart? love makes us opaque, lust even more so
you used to play my voice backward and say
that sounds like Bob in Twin Peaks
Fire walk with me would look good in ink
before tattoos were mainstream, we had no money for luxury
our pockets calcified and taut turned inside out like jagged tongues
of want and want not
in the smothering green light of your bedroom
I hid the places I didn’t want you to go
pre-wax, pre-tan, prematurely ejaculate
don’t call me I won’t answer my phone
Ring, Ring, Ring,
what chime, what sound, what soundtrack
do you carry?
mine is set on mute
if you asked to speak to me I could not
form sound
would you really want to hear my truth?
every step forward chalk on my shoes
hop skip jump throw the stone
leave a message after the bleep
after the fall
I’m leaving myself a message
get up now
get out of this house
climb from the windows if you must
do it fast before you grow into a place
you cannot claw your way through
nobody knows that neighbor, the mother of four
lies prone from 9am to 3pm whilst her kids
drink milk out of small glass bottles
in her bare feet and unwashed hair
garish scarlet lipstick sliced on limp wrists
how deftly you can cover your crimes with dry shampoo and
a dusting of perfume
wiping your mouth on the back of your horror
nobody knows how long you lived
not breathing
counting pills on the convex of your emptiness
and if they came
hauled you away, locked you in a padded room
filled your arm with urinal liquid, your mouth stuffed with ‘medicine’
you’d soon find an open door, fling yourself
glorious from fifth floor like a Rorschach crow
not all are made for asylum-life
feral animals cannot endure cages
the fax machine of the past, showed us our shadow
interpreting our malady as Jung
prophesied in his hunting vest
Ring, Ring, Ring,
Schroeder and Skinner take bets
packing tape wound round their vivisection
no-one is home please leave a brief message and we’ll
lose your distinctiveness in the rollerdex
you gave me yours in a wet crumpled ball
call ME! Blondie sung
in a snug t-shirt with her head larger than her body
this year I noticed my finger tips desiccating
despite warm temperature and heirloom seeds
the doctor said
this is the first sign of albinism
drink the days to your unnatural end
of your shrinking bones witherment
breasts diminishing like deflated ardor
bellies sag,  lost balloons caught in oaks
and what stood proud wilts
like tulips left too long in burned afternoon sun
Ring, Ring, Ring,
I am not a girl in ballet shoes
my feet are wrinkled and cracked like a beggar
who has walked too long for his supper
I do not want to eat the fat of the land
or the dish served cold
warmed with your insincere scold
for my weakness is abundant and I
lose moisture like a white fish licking brail
dries on Greek dock where you can if you squint
almost make out the shoreline of Italy
watching boats take others far and yonder
leaving crusts of their sandwiches for birds
the fish only seeks to return
to the deep still of ocean
(what would I say if)
my doppelgänger pushed me aside and ran to answer your insistence
hello it’s awfully good to hear from you, how am I? well …
I’m fair to middling for someone with a dagger in her back
depends on your definition of
walking underwater with undertow heavy beneath feet
cue the camera, take a shot, bang, bang!
the roaming dogs pee against your leg
on the shallow side of consciousness drift in and out
my pipe is smoky and hot with chastised resin
fingers dirty, the refuge of digging for my soul
you don’t want to hear that though … do you?
no question mark intended
I know your breed your pedigree your label
just as I gnawed mine apart
wove the strands into a length of yarn
tied it around my neck and vaulted
because I am the black dog we all avoid
who shakes her wet coat over dry make-believe
the echo behind the broken cup
one piece beneath furniture, the other
still containing a leached circumstance of water
we do not sup, you and I who have sober fists
I tried, I really tried, then the day went on without me
clocks winding themselves
girls pulling up their underwear in some basement flat
overlooking a river
men taking a piss in bushes, usually reserved for perverts
watching women jog in tight shorts, bounce, bounce, bounce
Ring, Ring, Ring,
is anybody there? What do you say?
are you home? Are you sleeping?
no and no
anything but the shape of arms
making circles against bare wall
here is my crucifixion
words we never tell
are pigment
and egg yolk
and torn hose