The heart on my sleeve
is at the dry cleaner’s,
a flock of tea-bags
just circled the house
and the kettle won’t boll,
says it wants to be
a poet.
Yes, reality’s using an egg for a golf ball:
the grandfather clock’s
just mounted a skateboard,
the newspapers now say
that the moon is a rumour,
the street-walkers have all
moved to cloud nine,
somebody’s got the salad
in a half-nelson,
my goldfish is knitting a watch
and they’ve brought back the guillotine
for an encore.
I just want to be loved
the way children love puddles:
happy jumping gumboot
in the middle of my face.
I want to sell cans
of Mona Lisa smiles,
I want a diploma
from the wrong side of the tracks,
I want to be allowed
to take my whale
onto the bus…
I just want to sleep,
I just want to sleep:
like a full stop,
like the lost jigsaw puzzle piece,
like the diamond on a widow’s hand,
but all I get is
my wallet salivating
to the ringmaster’s whip
and my nightmares
shimmying in lame dresses
like Diana Ross and the Supremes