I suck

paracetamol

bitter as any Slippery

Jack with his delectable

under

skirt

of

Devon-

shire

earth

Everything happens in this room.

Nothing happens in this room. I sit and

smile and try to contact the mothership

from this room. But the mothership

doesn’t seem to be picking up my

frequency. I’m bored of mindfulness –

open awareness of breath and brick wall.

I want, I demand, sparklier dimensions.

There must be a stargate in this room. Is

it in the hand gel? The fruit bowl? The

face mask? The council tax? Should I

twist the glass Italian boot of

limoncello? Text me. I see a book called

Omega and After. I see a mirror. I see

twelve stamps of owls. I see a deck of

Atlantis cards and pick the High

Priestess who sits on a throne with a

white peacock. I see The Plague by

Camus. I see an ordinary, cluttered room.

The chair. The table. The chair. The

table. The ceiling. The rack. The door.

But the stargate is never the door.