Today, i planted my brain
i buried it, in hope
like hemp seed
in the airing cupboard, next to the light switch

i think it cried in terrified strain
the agony of thinking was too great for it
unless, of course, it was a complaint
that I’d watched Countdown, first

So, now I think I’ll start a note book
a celebration of its thoughts
for its a good brain
especially now that its buried

I wonder if I’ll think again?

I just write the words.
The meaning comes afterwards.

This fantasy
the other world of the web
where you mind is a series of digits
code on a screen
is as illusory as
the refections in a fairground mirror
trying to find the truth in the
distortions of the glass

i look into the world
your reflection is ahead of me
an elder statesman who
one day
i shall become

its finished
  okay. let me see
here
  will i like it?
i don’t know. Its a reflection on modern life
  right

  That’s horrible
You didn’t like it?
  no. you write gruesome things.
But its got Noel Edmonds in it!
  Yuck.

She looks across the room
the light from the television harsh on her skin
and sees the child in the corner

“Don’t you think we should bury it?”
she asks at no-one

Noel Edmonds pulls a lever and
an overly excitable man in a bad jumper
is drowned in a phlegm of green gunge

“Its been there for weeks now”

The credits scroll up the tv screen, a
eulogy to common sense waved off by
the cast of the programme

“I don’t like having it here”

But there’s no response
again
from the man next to her
just the occasional swish from the can
as he brings the lager to his lips
and a sigh
at the start of the next gameshow

When I met King Boy D
last year? or was it before?
must check the tattoo
I took some photos
and some audio
got a cd signed
bought a poster
and a couple of books
20 pieces of artwork
but most of all
tried not to look like
an obsessive fan

Amended 15 Nov 2020

The golden light trickles
through the thin curtains
and dances a warming tread
across the floor

She, in slumber, turns her
back to the window
to maintain the darkness
and sleep’s rest

Look
over here
its a man
in plastic
wrapped
like a butcher’s product
not dead
wriggling
one end leaking expletives

and here
again
some woman
stands
in front of the mirror
unaware that it is broken
shattered through her looks
and gazes into her eyes
trying to find new meaning

the brochures from the car manufacturers
all promise a new life
with untold dreams and adventures
a new car brings youth and beauty
if not you, then the insincere fuck
who thinks you to be rich
dynamic
or less bland than your wheels

its all the same
aside from the specialist motors
the hearse companies
the dreams they peddle are more permanent
the new life is open to debate
there’s no need for a cup holder
although one for the urn would be useful
and the test drive is never repeated